the Girl
by ImaginaryStories
Summary: He didn't ask too many questions, just the necessary ones like 'who', 'where' and 'when'. The 'why' rarely came up. He never needed to know the 'why'. During a mission, Daryl Dixon meets, saves and reluctantly befriends a girl called Beth. AU. NO ZA.
1. Chapter 1

Peace never came easily to Daryl Dixon. Unlike his younger days, he had entered his adulthood with great appreciation for solitude. Being alone and lonely had long lost its difference for him. One of the few things that gave him peace was the roaring sound of his bike that vibrated through his entire body. He found the loud noise peaceful because it meant he was moving. Or, escaping, if you asked Rick Grimes - the man Daryl worked for.

Rick Grimes was a dirty cop. He was also a saint. Depending on which lens you looked through, he had told Daryl once. The one thing Daryl was sure about Grimes was that he was unorthodox. Daryl's assessment was valid because life had brought many cops across his path. Daryl could smell a suit from miles away. And Grimes may have been a suit on the outside, but in the inside he sought justice in form of vengeance by taking the matter in his own hands when he felt the law couldn't do no more. And Daryl Dixon did the dirty work for him. Truth to be told, Daryl couldn't give two shits about what Grimes was or wasn't. As long as Grimes kept his end of the deal - half before the job and half after, all in cash - Daryl didn't care about the rest. He had spent years going hungry in his life that he only focused on getting the job done and making sure he got paid for it.

The first time Grimes had approached him was 5 years ago. At what seemed to be nothing more than a sheer coincidence, they had both been at the same bar. They were both there for the same reason, but none of them were aware of that. Daryl would later learn that it was fate that brought them together that night.

Grimes would call him on the phone he had provided for him, when he had a new job for Daryl. The details were never said on the phone, of course - Grimes was too careful of a detective to ever risk such a rookie mistake. They'd always meet in the same alley they had first met each other. Daryl would await his arrival, leaning against his bike, taking drag after drag from his never ending cigarettes. Grimes never took any car with him. Daryl wasn't even sure he had a car. Despite having worked together for several years, Daryl didn't know anything about the man. Only his name, and that he was a man of law - more or less. He preferred it that way. If it was up to him, he didn't even want to know his name. Because names gave people a sense of familiarity - a luxury Daryl never could afford to have with anybody.  
Grimes on the other hand knew almost everything there was to know about Daryl. He had read the multiple files that were found in the database at his workplace. He had printed Daryl's public records all the way back to his childhood that was mostly spent in multiple foster cares. Grimes wanted to know if he could trust the man with what he intended to do. He had come too far to risk it all away.

When Grimes had approached him this time, he had told Daryl that the job was farther away from home. He had meant his own sense of home, of course, because Daryl had only scoffed - he never had a place to call home. For as long as he could remember, he had always been moving - either by force or by choice. During his investigation on Daryl, Grimes had scribbled down on a yellow post-it note "subject's living style affected by childhood trauma"  
Daryl considered Georgia - the state - the closest thing he had to a home. And that was only due to the fact that he had stayed at most of the motels around Georgia. In fact, Daryl's entire life could be packed in a duffle bag, that would later on hang on the back of his bike. He preferred it that way. With Grimes assigning him jobs that took him different places, he couldn't settle down anywhere, was what he told himself.

Last night when Grimes told him about his new assignment, he had given him more than just half of the payment. He had said that Daryl would need it.

"Three heads," Grimes had said, looking around to make sure nobody in the empty alley suspected anything. Something he always did, Daryl had noted.

When Daryl had arched an eyebrow and looked up from the paper bag that had been filled with green notes, Grimes had stepped forward and handed him the files he had brought with himself. He explained to Daryl that all three heads knew each other.

"They're brothers, all of 'em." Grimes had explained. What he didn't explain was that Daryl would be in more danger than ever, and that this mission would take much longer compared to the other ones. But he didn't need to explain these details. He was a sharp guy. That was the third and last trait Rick Grimes appreciated about him. The first one was that he wasn't afraid of death - wether he had to give or receive it, he did it fearlessly. The second trait was that he didn't ask too many questions, just the necessary ones like 'who', 'where' and 'when'. The 'why' rarely came up and when it did, it was an explanation (or ease of guilt) on Grimes' part. Daryl suspected that Grimes would bring up the 'why' this time.

"Charged the youngest for rape 'n murder - the older sons o' bitches murdered the only eye witness, so he walked away. Insufficient evidence, my ass, I know he did it! He's done it before too, got too sloppy last time 'n murdered the girl. She was barely 18, for fuck's sake."

Daryl had just nodded. He never needed to know the 'why's'. If you asked him, he would probably say because he didn't care. But deep inside, he knew Grimes must have had his reasons for ordering hits on the targets.

He had gone back to his motel, packing all his belongings that consisted of two guns, ammunition, a knife and a few pieces of personal items - prioritized by Daryl in the same order.

He'd left the motel the same night. Sleep was important to Daryl, but he had spent many sleepless nights that he had grown accustomed to sleeplessness. He had adapted himself to need sleep only and when he could afford it. He saddled his bike, hitting the peddle and bringing the bike to roar with life. He then hit the road, thinking about the mission. He knew it would be different this time, but he was soon to discover just how different it all would be.

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She had dried her eyes of tears. She clutched her cross that was dangling around her neck, and looked out the window. The streets seemed oddly quiet tonight.

She sighed, and rested her head against the window.

She had repeatedly let herself wander away with daydreams about her life being a fairytale. That some day a fairy or an angel would come to her rescue and save her from all this. But this was real life and there were no saints walking the Earth. Even if there were, she would never encounter one.

A load roar disturbed her thoughts. The few street lights that worked shed their flickering lights on the source of the noise that was approaching the building. It was a biker. Yet another lowlife, she thought to herself. When the male figure parked and locked up his bike, she took notice of the leather jacket he was wearing; a pair of angel wings was painted on it.

She blinked a few times, not sure if what she had just seen was real or a dream.

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**A/N: hello my lovelies. First off, I'd like to thank those who have read and reviewed my previous stories - and those who follow me. I'm very flattered, you have no idea how much. Second, I didn't want to start another multi-chap fic as i'm bad at keeping up the pace and updates, especially because I haven't finished "We'll Be Good" but i will try my best to keep the updates frequent with this one. That's a promise. Thirdly, thank you for reading this story :) Those who are familiar with my stories or know me, you probably know that I'd like to know what my readers thought of the chapter, if they have any favorite scene or line. If you could share them with me, I would be eternally grateful. Also, criticism is most welcome too! Love you guys!**


	2. Chapter 2

He saw her on the first night he moved into the grey city, the grey neighborhood, the grey street packed with tarnished tenements with broken windows, and garbage. There were broken cars parked everywhere, walls decorated with vulgar graffiti. The smell of half a dozen drugs he could recognize filled the clammy air.

He would fit right in.

Daryl wanted to stay at a motel, but he was unable to find one with the proper distance to the targets. Renting a place when three hits were about to take place wasn't the brightest idea, but when he had seen the neighborhood, he changed his mind. Suits wouldn't step their foot around here. The landlord hadn't even asked for his ID. Why would he? Daryl had given him a thick roll of green notes, worth three or four months' rent. _Yes, sir, yeah - I gots the best place for ya, I swear, ain't no rats up there. Y'be real happy there _- he had been talking to Daryl, but his eyes were only focused on the roll Daryl was holding. _Ya bring up here what you like, have yer fun - nobody's gon' ask nuthin'. _Daryl figured as much.

The building had four floors, each indistinguishable from the other except for the different mold and stain patterns. The long dark corridors were covered with carpets that had long lost their original color - they were now a musty brown. The walls looked like they could collapse any moment because of the water damage. There were still thin strips of wallpaper here and there; hanging like a ghost from a past none of the tenants would ever know. The landlord, who was a balding stocky guy, had told him that there was a laundry room to be found in the basement, and that he could park _that_ _beautiful thing_ - his bike, in the garage. He would not be held responsible if anything were to happen to it, of course.

His place was on the third floor. It consisted of a bedroom, bathroom and a living room that had a small kitchen. All of which were small in size, and naturally dirty. The double bed that was left in the bedroom squeaked when you sat on its stained matrass. The remaining furniture involved a small wooden table that wobbled, and a tattered black leather couch, that even Daryl wasn't keen on using.

After the landlord who had introduced himself as Parker left, Daryl checked the windows and the locks. He had noticed that all the doors they passed on the corridors had multiple locks. _More than three._ His door only had two. He looked around - deciding what he needed to purchase for his stay. Definitely some clean sheets. Even Daryl's unhygienic ways had a limit.

Grimes paid him enough for each head. It wasn't something they had agreed upon - when Grimes had approached him for the second time, he had brought a grocery bag that had some money inside and a gun. _So fuckin' original. _The payment was never the same amount; it would fluctuate depending on the target. But for someone who had experienced hunger (for years), it was always enough. Daryl never used all of it, he didn't need to - diner food and beer weren't expensive at all.

Before leaving for the city, Daryl looked through the files Grimes had provided him with. As per usual, there were some photographs of the heads - Daryl only needed to go through them once. Maybe he would look around already tonight, test the waters – and maybe get out of this shithole sooner.

He was already restless.

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It was around 3 in the morning when he had returned. He had been roaming around on his bike all night - stopped for a half an hour to get something to eat and drink. He had spotted a Chinese store that sold almost everything, and got the things he needed.

She had been sitting on the windowsill, when he saw her. Her slender pale legs were drawn up, and her equally if not paler arms were tightly wound around them. Judging by the stiffness of her neck and the flushed cheeks, she had repositioned her seat moments ago - Daryl could tell.

He had only cast a glance because he was walking up the stairs. But he had noticed many things about her. A man with the type of living that he did - he had to be observant.

He could smell her before he could see her. It was a faint smell of something sweet that he couldn't place. But it was sweet. And it was mixed with other things - cheap beer, marijuana, sweat and sex. She was wearing a very short skirt that didn't cover much. What she wore on her upper half didn't leave much to the imagination either.

Maybe she worked the streets.

It made sense. From what he had seen, in this neighborhood, nobody seemed to be winning. She seemed young though - sixteen tops. But Daryl had seen younger ones, hadn't he? It was a nasty world we lived in.

When he turned around to head to his own floor, he could feel the girl's big blue eyes burning through his back.

It made him uncomfortable.

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**A/N: Hello my lovelies. This is a (very) short chapter, and we still haven't progressed much (at all, actually). My intention with this chapter was to give an idea of how the new neighborhood is, to create the uneasy feeling.**

**Some quick replies: to the first Guest who reviewed: thank you for that! I don't know how to work this website because I had put some dashes indicating the change of POV, but apparently they were deleted. **

**To the second guest PrimroseGale, thank you very much! It can indeed go many different directions. To be honest, I'm not sure which direction I'm taking this. I have a few ideas on the overall shape of the story, but nothing concrete.**

**It is in my understanding that some people find reviewing difficult, in terms of how to give a constructive criticism. So, I will from now on post my intentions with each respective chapters and you can tell me – if you like – whether I have achieved them or not. And whether they were done poorly or okay-ish **

**Happy reading! Cheers!**


	3. Chapter 3

Six days into the mission, Daryl had located the three targets. They were easy to find, but they would be hard to eliminate. The brothers were usually together - as if they had somehow sensed their lives would be taken from them in a few weeks. During this time, death had paid visit to Daryl's neighborhood as well. Two men, one girl - the latter had simply "ran away" but the broken door and the almost undetectable blood trail said otherwise. Not that anybody cared. Things like this happened all the time around here. And the two men? They had committed suicide, _jus' looki 'ere sir, 's apparent suicide, sir, yeah_. It was just a funny coincidence that both of the diseased owed money to the same people.

Now that Daryl had spotted the 'who's', he spent the rest of his time in the tenement, planning the 'when's' and 'how's' – he had two options; either take them one by one, or he could take them all at the same time. He'd just need some more supplies. He figured one by one would be easier.

He didn't purchase any new furniture; he wasn't going to stay here long. Grimes had given him three months - a month per head. Daryl calculated he'd be done within two months' time - if things went according his plans. He had however bought a used TV - like everything else in his life, the TV needed a few smack before it could show something. He wasn't the type who enjoyed watching TV, unless there was a game on. The purpose of the talking box was to cut off the sounds that escaped the thin walls - babies crying and being bitterly shushed, girls and women being sworn at by their boyfriends/husbands/pimps - take your pick, gruff male voices using their colorful crude language.

He had heard enough of that during his childhood.

All those noises would disappear, though, instantly when Parker (or Barker, as it was scribbled on the walls in the second floor hallway) was around. Or when danger - aside from Daryl - was nearby. Nobody came to the other's rescue. The suddenly thick walls muted the screams and the cries for help, nobody could hear them. Things like that went by unnoticed – deliberately, of course - until the stench of death would be too strong to ignore.

But he could tolerate these things. All of it.

Except for the girl. The girl with the big blue eyes.

She made him uncomfortable. She pissed him off.

She was there every night he returned, didn't matter what time it was – _she was just always there._ Sitting on the same dirty windowsill, all flushed and stiff - her arms wrapped around her legs. What the fuck was she doing there every night? Didn't she have anythin' else to do 'cept sittin' there on her ass, keepin' an eye on him? Maybe he would have to do something about this hundred-pounds problem.

She never said anything, never looked at him directly - she just kept her stare straight, locking her gaze on the window frame. If anyone didn't know any better, they'd think she was mentally ill, or she had found the cure to cancer on the wooden frame. She hadn't really done anything; she never spoke, never fretted, never gave him judgmental looks. Maybe that's exactly why she was pissing him off?

Maybe she wanted money. She looked malnourished, it made Daryl wonder when she last had a meal. Sometimes he would bring back some groceries or his leftovers. She could probably smell it - food smell was after all very scarce around here. Yeah, that's it - she wanted money to buy food, probably. Or drugs. Whatever she needed the money for, if it meant it would keep her off of Daryl's back, he'd give it to her.

Only once did he fail to see her. It was on his fourth night. He had just returned from a full day's work, locating the targets. He had stopped by the Chinese store that seemed to be open 24/7 and bought cigarettes and some beer. Upon his return, he thought of her waiting for him. But he was surprised to find the windowsill empty. Without realization, Daryl paced his steps; maybe she was sitting somewhere else, or hiding in some corner.

That night, he had taken a deep breath when he had closed his door. _Good_.

She was there tonight, though. Sitting by the windowsill. The flickering streetlights were casting their light on her, Daryl saw the blue/green-ish bruise that was forming on her creamy thigh. He knew how one could get such a bruise - you had to be kicked. By her pimp or boyfriend, he didn't know.

Why didn't she try to cover her bruise? Why was she still wearing that short skirt from the first night? Didn't she have anything else to wear? Or was this her lame tactic to make him feel sorry for her? _Little bitch._

She was pissing him off.

He had planned everything though. Planning was Daryl's forte. He was just going to walk to his apartment like he had done so all the other nights. And when he would turn around, a twenty-dollar bill would somehow slip from his pocket. She would only have to wait for a minute for him to be gone, and then it'd be hers. If it wasn't enough, he could give her some more. He could. Anything to -

"Mister,"

At first, Daryl thought he had imagined hearing the timid voice. He could have turned around to check - he _had_ stopped walking.

"Mister,"

She called to him louder this time. He turned around, she was still sitting by the windowsill, but her arms were no longer wrapped tightly around her legs. She had her hands locked in each other, between her stomach and knees - as if she was trying to prevent her hands from reaching the bill.

When Daryl didn't move, she stared at him blankly. Christ, her eyes were big. And oddly innocent. Daryl was almost certain you would see all of yourself in the reflection of those eyes, if you stepped close enough. He noticed she had slight curls in her blonde hair. If she hadn't looked so damn shocked, she could be easy on the eyes. No - no, she _was_.

"You dropped somethin'" she said, nodding towards the money and snapping him back to the present. Her voice was even frailer than her. But it was soft - just like the sweet smell about her.

With a tight jaw, he stepped down from the stairs and plucked the bill from the dirty floor. If she was too dumb to pick up the money, it was her problem.

_Stupid bitch._

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Her leg hurt. She remembers she would cover her bruises when she was younger, afraid anyone would see them and then question her. Over the years, she had learned that nobody gave a crap about you. Not in this Godforsaken city. So she stopped. She stopped pretending she was being hit. She stopped pretending everything was fine. She stopped crying too - but only because she had no more tears left.

Another girl from the tenement had "gone missing" - _hmpf!_

She didn't know her, but she had seen her on the streets a few times, when she was walking back home from work. Her name - not her street name, that was Lola - but her real name began with S. Or T? She doesn't remember. She was around her age.

She wondered if she would share the same fate as Lola.

The familiar sound of motorcycle rumble made her jerk sharply. It was him. She quickly drew her legs to herself and wrapped her arms around them. She didn't want him to think she was awaiting his arrival.

She would never look at him directly. She dared not. She was well aware of his types – bikers. She… _met_ a lot of them at work. They were aggressive people, always looking for trouble. Not to mention, they were always in gangs, and that meant danger to-the-power-of danger.

He was a bit different, though, she had to admit. He never said anything, didn't even make a sound - just the paced _thump thump _of his heavy boots, and occasionally the rustle of plastic bag.

She wouldn't have noticed the fallen bill if she hadn't been staring at the man's back. He was slipping his hand in his pocket to fetch his keys when the dollar bill had slipped. She didn't know how to catch his attention, or what to call him - sir? _Hey_? Without further thought, she had blurted out "Mister" - it's polite, even though his kind don't care too much about niceties.

He hadn't turn around, but he had stopped walking. Maybe her voice was too low. She tried again, slightly louder this time. Her voice hadn't shaken, that's good.

When he had turned around, she could see his face for the first time. He looked disheveled. Annoyed. Surprised? She tried to study his face, but couldn't tell how old he was, maybe around forty, give or take a few years. He was looking sternly at her, making her doubt whether she had called him mister or something else. Maybe he was mute.

"You dropped somethin'" she told him, nodding with her head towards the bill - helping him understand what she meant. She didn't want to step down and hand him the money herself. What if he grabbed her? Her young life had taught her to avoid being at an arm's reach with strangers - or anybody, really.

He finally understood her because he plucked the money from the floor, but he did so violently – as if it was a burden for him to take back what was his. She had seen people get stabbed for less, why was he so annoyed?

She didn't say anything, she just watched him disappear into his own floor.

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**A/N: Hello my lovelies. Here is another chapter, I know – it's very quick! I wrote it and thought I would hold if off for a few days, but I can't be too cruel to my readers! My intention with this chapter was to establish our protagonists' first meeting and first interaction, and demonstrate what type of characters we are dealing with. A fair warning to my readers, this is going to be a dark AU. You can probably tell that from these chapters.**

**Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed it, and please feel free to tell me what you thought of it. An "I hated it!" is as welcome in my review box as an "I loved it!". Happy Saturday Xoxo**


	4. Chapter 4

Victims: Joe the Meth-head, Len the Murderer, and Dan the Rapist.

Family relations: the fuckin' A Team – Psychopath Edition.

Time of death: _ain't comin' soon enough!_

Grimes had told him that he'd been chasing these three _cockroaches _for a long time. _I had 'em, Dixon, I had 'em! They were right there _– to which he had showed the palm of his right hand – _'n they tell me there ain't evidence enough to cuff 'em! _At that, Grimes had placed both hands on his hips and leaned in, borrows furrowed, staring at Daryl as if he had the answers to why there weren't enough evidence. _These son's o'bitches need t'go! _He had nodded decisively, using his index finger to tap on the files Daryl was holding.

Daryl would start with the oldest one and work his way down to the youngest. He wanted to see the look on his sorry face when he'd realize his brothers wouldn't be there to help him no more. _Fuckin' pricks. _He would save him for last, maybe torture him before, give him some pain for all that he caused - no, no! Not physical pain - that'd be merciful of Daryl. He'd torture him mentally. He'd scar him mentally. Yeah, that's a good idea. Physical pain and scars would heal or you'd just learn to live with them. Just like his back. But mental pain… oh boy, oh boy - wasn't that a bitch. Mental scars never went away.

Daryl knew that better than anybody else.

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Nine days into the mission, he made a hit - the eldest one, Joe.

He didn't want to use his gun on him. He wanted to use his knife, maybe cut a few fingers first, make him speak - give him hope that he'd spare his sorry life, and _then_ slit his throat - not too deep so he could bleed out to death.

He was crying like a little bitch, showing his rotten and damaged teeth. There was really no need for that - it was just 3 fingers, _for fuck's sake! _Daryl was almost glad he had changed his mind about cutting off his dick - he couldn't tolerate his pathetic cries.

"Ya mutherfucker! Y—ya cu-cut mah fingers, ya piece a shit! Ah'm gon fuckin' kill ya!"

Daryl sighed, shaking his head in a parody of sadness.

He needed to ask him the few questions Grimes had written down in the reports. He wouldn't budge at first, of course – that prick. So Daryl placed the sharp tip of the knife that had blood dripping down, and placed it on top of his crotch.

"Wanna find out what bleeds more than fingers?" he asked him and awaited his response patiently.

The man had been squirming - out of fear or pain, Daryl didn't care - but he had immediately stopped at the feel of the sharp object, and Daryl's dangerous words. He was choking on his own breath like it was water and not oxygen. Daryl put more pressure on the knife, and made him speak.

After Daryl heard the things he needed to hear, he left the body that was gurgling on the cement ground.

The son of bitch had bled on his jeans. He would have to wash them soon - he hated when blood dried up and stuck to his legs – it made walking difficult. The sun would be up soon, so he hurried back. Good thing he was wearing dark clothes - the bloodstains wouldn't be too noticeable. Not that it mattered around here – to most people it didn't matter as long as it wasn't their blood.

He changed from his bloody jeans into a new pair that were equally dark, but with less visible stains. He tried to wash them in the broken bathroom sink, but the water ran in spurts. With a frustrated sigh, he headed towards laundry room Parker had mentioned.

The basement was as bad in a shape as the rest of the building. The bad florescent light made the long and dark hallway look like a scene from a horror movie. Daryl was surprised to hear the noise of working washing machines coming from a room. _Sumthin' works in this hell hole after all._

He followed the noise to one of the many rooms and doors that there were, to be stopped by another sound. It was a female voice. She was talking to someone.

"_…don't wanna be my boyfriend 'n I don't wanna be your girl…_"

He stepped closer, but kept himself in the shadows. He didn't want to reveal himself before figuring out what was going on inside the laundry room.

"…_And pine for summer,  
__'n we'll buy beer t'shotgun,  
__'n lay in the lawn  
__And we'll be good…_"

She was singing.

Whoever it was, she was singing and she had a nice voice – very… very _soft and… delicate_, Daryl noted absently. He didn't know whether he should stay there or step inside. He didn't want to engage in any conversation or even awkward hello's - even though his demeanor rarely gave people the confidence to approach him. _Fuck it – _he already had his shit with him. He stepped inside with a loud footstep, making whoever was there aware of his presence. With a sharp intake of breath and an overly dramatic twirl (according to Daryl, of course) the source of voice stopped singing and turned around.

It was _her_.

The girl from the windowsill.

The girl with the big blue eyes.

Her pink lips were parted, cheeks flushed, eyes big and round; she was staring at him, frozen midway into her fabric folding. And he was staring back – it couldn't be helped. She had locked her eyes with him and with that his entire being. Her stare was like an invisible chain that captured him and wouldn't grant release.

With every force he could muster, he made himself avert his eyes and clear his dry throat. She jerked her head too - _Christ! The fuck is goin' on!_

He quickly looked at the machines (dented and produced sometime in the eighties). Old and kaput were the themes of this Goddamn place.

There were eight washing machines, five of them had an "out of order" sign and the remaining three weren't empty. She must have noticed he was looking for an idle one because she told him one of them would soon finish.

"That one's gonna be done soon, if - " she hurriedly almost whispered.

He half turned to face her, and gave a half nod. He didn't know how long 'soon' was, and nor did he want to wait around and find out. So he placed his jeans on top of a broken machine and left the room and the girl who still hadn't resumed folding her clothes.

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He returned after several hours when it was getting dark outside. He found his jeans inside the sixth washer. They were still wet, but they were clean and they smelt faintly of washing chemicals. He held the wet clothing in his hands, not knowing what to feel or think, despite having stared at what was in his hands for several minutes.

Much later that night, when he was lying on the bed, he could hear the soft voice singing in his head. He shut his eyes to shut off the voice, but instead he was met with a pair of big blue eyes.

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She was humming one of her favorite songs while folding the clean laundry when a heavy _thump _sound startled her. Her blood boiling, she turned around fast, half expecting the sound to belong to _that pig_, but it was him – the guy from third floor.

She found it odd to find him there; he seemed misplaced - a typical biker in a laundry room. But he wasn't a typical biker, was he? No… he was different. There was an… awkward… aura around him. She wondered if he had heard her sing? She realized she was staring at him, and that he was staring back. Usually, when someone stared at her, it meant two things: run or walk away. But there she was – eyes glued on the stranger.

He was the one to avert his eyes first, which was good because she doesn't think she could have done that. He was gnawing on his lower lip while looking at the machines. She noticed he was carrying something in his large hand; it looked like a pair of jeans.

"That one's gonna be done soon, if -" she blurted out, her voice dying. She wondered if the man had even heard her. But apparently he had, because he had looked at her sideways, and given what looked like a nod. He was still gnawing at his lower lip. Why did he do that?

She watched him as he placed his jeans on top of the second washer and left the room. Her heart was beating unusually fast – which was a surprise given the fact that she had dealt with men like him before. Could he have heard her loud heartbeat?

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After a couple of hours, she was done - she had been waiting for the man to return, but he hadn't. At first, she had cast peeping glances to the dark jeans that belonged to the stranger. Then she had walked to the second washer and picked up the item while one of her eyes was on the door - in case he returned.

The piece of clothing felt big and heavy in her small hands. She felt a hotness seep through her cheeks at the invasion of his privacy.

Later when she looked at the spinning washer, she told herself that someone might have stolen them, if they were just _lying there_ - but if they were inside the washer, nobody would see them. Yeah - after all, things got lost in this building all the time.

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**A/N: Hello my lovelies. I hope this chapter wasn't too dark for my lovely fainthearted readers. You may have noticed that I changed the title to "the Girl" because there is another fic by the name of Devil's Backbone and it's still in progress, so I didn't want to create any confusion. Also, "the Girl" suits this fic better, I feel. Soooo... what did you guys think of their reaction? It was very brief, I know. Let me know what you think of the pace - too slow? Too fast? I hope you enjoyed it though, and that you will let me know what you thought of it. Constructive criticism is most welcome. Cheers lovers Xoxo**


	5. Chapter 5

_Sonufabitch!_

His bike wouldn't start. He had tried to bring life to the roaring machine, but the bike remained still. There was a checklist he always followed when it came to fixing his bike; batteries, fuel and ignition. It was one of the handful lessons he had been fortunate to inherit from someone who wasn't he himself. He had worked as a motorbike mechanic before he got involved with Grimes; one of the many jobs he did in the pre-Grimes period. He enjoyed working with bikes - perhaps because it was one of the few things he was good at – aside from killing people and getting into trouble.

It was semi hot when he had woken up restless and sweaty - the urge to leave the decaying tenement had filled every fiber of his being. He had dreamt about strange things, which made no sense to him, when he recalled them the moment he had woken up. Maybe - maybe it's the heat, he thought absently and ran his calloused hand on his bare clammy chest. He got up to look out the window and detect the time of the day, but his eyes had fallen on his jeans instead.

The night before, he had draped them on the tattered leather couch to dry.

He lit a cigarette and kept his eyes fixed on the jeans. _Why'd she do it? _

He exhaled the grey smoke - his eyes still on the piece of clothing. _Maybe wasn't her. _

With a frustrated sigh, he had gotten dressed and left the apartment. He was annoyed with the girl. Why would she touch something that wasn't hers? What did she want from him? Money? Food? _A peachy smile 'n a fuckin' thank-you note, _he grunted.

_Girl ain't right in her goddam head, 's all. Quit bitchin' 'bout it!_

His schedule was erratic; much of his "work" took place long after the streetlights - the few that worked - came on. But it all depended on the heads too; the best time to find them alone. Sometimes this meant past midnight or early morning. However, this time – for no determinable reason – Daryl was growing restless and frustrated by every day. Maybe it was the neighborhood.

His frustration grew the moment he realized his bike wouldn't start. He had cursed under his breath and kicked the bike's tire, which was the only safe place for his kicks to land, as he didn't want to damage the only possession he held dear. He would rather have his limbs broken than have his bike crash. _Limbs heal, bikes don't._ He found out soon enough that it was the oil that needed to be changed. As a man on the run, more or less, he always packed the necessary tools for his bike - a lesson he learnt the hard way. It was during his early days with Grimes; he had to take down a head, Shane Walsh - a dirty cop who had previously worked with Grimes. During that mission, Daryl had ran into complications - not the kill, no that had gone smooth, but on his way back, his bike had broken down and he didn't have any tools with him to fix it. _Did you leave it?_ Grimes had asked him if he left his bike in the Georgian highway. Daryl had scoffed - Grimes might know a lot about him, but he didn't know Daryl was no pussy – he always took care of himself and his own; he had carried that bike for miles until he had found a mechanic.

When he had changed the oil, he took the bike for a ride. He didn't know where he was headed; he just needed to get out of _there_. ASAP. As he was riding away, he saw the residents of the neighborhood during the day - something he didn't get to see very often. The majority of them were young guys and girls - around _her _age, Daryl noted absently. They were all hanging out in the merciless sunlight, either smoking or drinking while listening to horrible music that he didn't recognize. Everything around this neighborhood reminded Daryl of his own upbringing. Not that he grew up in apartments and big cities, no, no - but the poorness of it all (in every sense of the word) made him recall his childhood. History did repeat itself; there was decades between his childhood and these children's, but it was all the same. It didn't matter that there was Internet now, worse music, technological advancement… it was still all the same

He had tried to escape places like this his entire life.

His frustration led him to a store where he bought a pull-up bar. He had always taken out his frustration by punching someone's face. Or, a punching bag. But he would be done here soon enough, so he had settled for something smaller and less heavy. He would set it up by the doorframe, if it could hold up his weight - 'cause the place sure looked like as if it could collapse any moment.

It was late in the afternoon when he returned and set up the bar. He had been pacing his steps when he had taken the stairs. For no specific reason - he was just takin' his time, 's all. And his tense shoulders when he had reached the second floor? That's cause he was tired. And the slight turn of his head that had made him look at the hallway? He was just lookin' 'round. _Big fuckin' deal._

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Later that night, he decided to walk to the Chinese store and buy a pack of cigarettes. He still had seven cigarettes left, but in case he needed some more. He took his weapons with him; tucked them neatly in the back of his pants. He would never carry his cellphone with him; he and Grimes never kept in touch during missions. For each head, they'd meet twice; once before the job and once after the job. Besides, if need be, a phone wouldn't save his ass – a knife could and had.

He felt the same uneasiness from earlier that day, when he reached the second floor.

The windowsill was still empty.

Not that he had expected her to be there, but it's 'cause she was _always fuckin' there_. He thought maybe she'd be there again tonight. Not that she'd been there every night, but she's been there – sitting on her ass – most of the nights.

When he returned after a couple of hours, it was midnight. He had gotten hungry so he had gone to eat a burger that was wrapped in a greasy paper. He was out anyway, might as well make the best of it. It's not like he had anything waiting for him back at the apartment. But upon his return, the familiar uneasiness crept through him.

Except that the windowsill wasn't empty this time.

But his shoulder tensed all the same. She was looking at him, expectantly, a shy half-a-smile playing across her lips. Her hands weren't around her knees now; they were crossed on top of them. With every ounce of casualness he could draw together, he gave her a half-a-nod. It wasn't an acknowledgement, it wasn't a 'hi', it wasn't a 'thank-you' - it was just a nod, and not even a complete one.

When he reached his apartment, he let out a deep breath he wasn't aware he was holding.

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They fell into (what was that word?) that quicksand of daily repetition: a routine. Daryl had spent years trying to avoid them. The only routine he tolerated - not enjoyed - in his life was his meeting with Grimes; but that was only because it was safer and quicker. Daryl didn't like routines - he was content enough with his disrupted lifestyle and his not so peachy habits (smoking, drinking, killing).

Routines were dangerous, terrifying things. He'd always blame the girl for dragging him into one.

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They never spoke, never exchanged names or anything.

Theirs was a tale of shy glances and nods.

The shy glances that said many things; they greeted, they asked, they acknowledged - all but mutely, though.

The nods were the same.

He would return to the tenement late at night – no matter how many times he had been out during the day, he would go out one more time in the evening and return late at night - 'cause he always needed to get sumthin', cigarettes, food, beer, - it didn't matter that they would usually just pile up in a corner, most of them untouched and unpacked.

And the girl? She would be sitting by the windowsill. Awaiting his arrival? He hoped not. Why would she? She didn't know him, and he didn't know her.

But night after night, in the quiet darkness, a shy glance and a nod were shared.

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As previously said, routines were dangerous. They numb you. So sly and total was their take-over that you'd start to think - hey, this ain't so bad. The girl might not be a complete menace or a pain in the ass. And… and if he allowed himself to enjoy those brief moments, so what? Who was around to call him a hypocrite?

But the thing about routines was that when they were broken, their effect could be freeing - or devastating.

Because the girl didn't show up the next night. Or the night after that.

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**A/N: Hello my lovely readers! So, here we are at the bottom of the page! What did you guys think of this chapter? I know it's ended on a bit of a cliffhanger(ish) but I felt it's a good place to finish off this chapter. Maybe have you keep guessing what's happening Truth to be told, I'm not overly happy with this chapter, but maybe because I'm very stressed lately; exams, moving etc.**

**Anyway, please let me know what you thought of this chapter. The pace of the story and their interaction will speed up in the next chapter, don't worry! Let me know how I did this time. Bye lovelies xoxo**


	6. Chapter 6

The first night she was absent, he had searched for her.

It was around midnight when Daryl had returned from wandering around in the city. He had spent most of the day around the tenement; either tweaking his bike or hiding inside. He was returning from yet another trip to the Chinese store. The owner had grown accustomed to Daryl's nightly visits - he would usually make the same purchases: one pack of Camel cigarettes and a bottle of beer – occasionally food. That night, the owner had given him a friendly suggestion as Daryl was paying - to buy a whole carton of cigarettes and a case of beer so he won't have to come to the store every night.

Upon his return to the tenement, he found the windowsill empty.

The girl wasn't there.

Well - he _had_ returned earlier that night.

He walked slowly toward his apartment. Once he was inside, he opened the beer with his knife and tossed the cap hard in the sink while taking a swig. He lit a cigarette and cracked open a window because he suddenly felt suffocated. He looked at the burning cigarette between his fingers - maybe he oughtta stop smokin'.

For several minutes, he paced back and forth in the small apartment not knowing how to kill time. If it had been people, he could have found several ways to do it, but time killing wasn't his forte. He had finally settled for the pull-up bar, using it for the first time. Daryl was suddenly glad for this investment; for some reason he was frustrated and he was happy to know he could take it out on the metal bar.

When his arms had finally given out, he switched on the TV. There was a game on that he planned to watch (something that happened rarely), but instead he gathered his flannel shirt and took it down to the laundry room. It was dirty, had some small oil stains on them. He had never cared about oil stains or clean clothes that much, but his jeans had cleaned out so well - so he would try his shirt too. Besides, if the girl was _there_, he could show her that he can take care of himself - that he doesn't need her charity. But only _if_ she was there.

As he was walking downstairs toward the laundry room, he remembered the last time he had been there; the girl had been singing. But that night, Daryl found no soft voice humming, no eyes watching him. He stood in the empty laundry room for a few moments, gnawing his lower lip. The girl was absent from any of her usual places, so it hardly mattered that he _was_ looking for her.

She wasn't there. Period.

Walking slow, breathing deeply, Daryl returned to the third floor. His hand still clutched the stained flannel shirt.

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The night after that, the girl was still absent.

Daryl didn't go searching for her this time; he was busy. If the girl couldn't be bothered to be in her spot, by the windowsill, where she was _supposed_ to be, then that was her problem. He wasn't going to chase after the girl.

It wasn't his job.

Daryl had still gone to the Chinese store to make his usual purchases – only this time he really needed a drink. He figured that if the girl weren't there upon his return, the wasted effort to go to the store would provide the excuse his anger needed. He might even track the girl down - drag her back to the second floor and _make_ her sit by the windowsill. The possibility that the girl wasn't there because she _couldn't_ be there, never crossed his mind. He wasn't worried, certainly not panicked. He didn't miss her.

_Fuck her._

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The next day he woke up with a headache. He hadn't drunk much, but he had still managed to get a headache. Kicking the white sheets angrily aside, Daryl got up and put on the first thing he found on the floor and stormed out of the apartment. The midday-sun burned his already tan arms, as he rode his bike towards the city.

Daryl didn't know how long he had been roaming around, when he spotted the third brother – Dan the Rapist. From what he had read in the files, Dan was the nastiest one of them. Daryl knew it wasn't the brightest idea to track the fucker down, especially because he wasn't alone, but his body ached for a good fight; he _needed_ to release his frustration somehow.

He kept an eye on Dan and his henchman from afar, tracking them from street to street, bar to bar, alley to alley. Daryl would always calculate every step of his hits – he would never make an impulsive move, but his frustration was winning over his better judgment. The sun would set soon and then he could make his move. Of course, he could always snap both their necks, but he wanted to make Dan beg for his death. Grimes had never given him instructions on what _methods_ to use; he didn't care as long as Daryl finished the job.

It was nighttime when the psychopathic duo had stepped out of the dingy bar and in into their car. Daryl had let them drive till they reached a quiet area, before he sped up his bike and hit the brakes right before their car. Daryl had calculated that the henchman who also sat behind the wheels, would most likely step out of the car and threaten him. He would then snap his neck and drag Dan to the abandoned buildings by the railways.

When Daryl had thrown Dan to the cement ground, he explained to him slowly and evenly what he intended to do to him.

"First, I'm gon' dial your brother Len, so he can listen. Then, I'm gon' break your arms 'n then your legs, so every time you move you feel pain. Then comes the fun part." Daryl leaned forward, "Imma rip your dick off 'n make you eat it. How 'that sound?"

The crying young man stood up and attacked Daryl using a switchblade aimed for Daryl's heart. Daryl blocked his move with his left arm, which made the blade cut right through his arm. With his other hand, Daryl punched Dan in the gut that sent him collapsing to the ground.

He took Dan's phone and dialed Len's number, waiting for him to pick up the phone, before fulfilling his promise to Dan.

He started with the man's right arm, stomping on it hard repeatedly and not stopping before he could hear bones breaking…

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Daryl was covered in blood. Some were from the cut on his arm, but most of it belonged to Dan. As he was riding back to the tenement, he thought of death. He had never been scared of death - growing up the way he did, death was always a big part of his life. But tonight he had been a little worried. He wondered what would happen to his body if he had died. Would anybody find him? Grimes would wonder about him, but he would never send a search team after him. What they did was between them and only them. Would anybody miss him? He had nobody, so no. Would the girl miss him? Would she even notice his absence? All of those thoughts proved unnecessary, because tonight the girl was there.

Waiting for him. In her place. By the windowsill.

Her eyes held a little less life, a little less curiosity in the world around her. It may have seemed a cold stare to anyone without his observational skills, anyone who couldn't see the smaller details - like the tense shoulders and her wobbly lips. She looked like misery.

Daryl saw new bruises forming on her slender limbs. Her left arm had a mark that looked like a large hand. Whoever the hand belonged to, he had grabbed her hard and he was strong. Her lower lip had cracked, too. Those kind of split lips happened when someone slapped you with the back of their hand.

It was on Daryl's tongue to ask _what happened?_, but he kept the words in his mouth. He wasn't someone who asked questions like that; he didn't care.

Instead, he looked at her big eyes that were conveyed with so many questions, but were focused on his face.

At the other end of the hall, a man stumbled to the stairwell, baring his teeth at the girl. It might have been a smile. His pupils were mere pinpricks, but he was still fishing for more rolls from his pocket. Daryl took note of the glaring man already standing over the girl, but he had kept walking. But the next one might not.

Gnawing on his lip, Daryl took a deep breath, the exhalation being more of a resolved sigh. He looked at the girl who was still sitting, her arms tightly wrapped around her slender knees. He took a step forward (the closest he had ever been to her - he absently noted) enough for her arm to reach his hand; he didn't want to scare her. He held something in his hand, nodding towards it, indicating that she should take it. It was the switchblade. Despite the fact that the same weapon injured him, he rather liked it, so he had taken it with him. It was light and could easily be tucked in a boot or a belt. It was perfect for the girl.

She stared at the blade in his hand for a long time before unwrapping her arms and reaching over, accepting the odd gift from him.

She gave him her shy smile.

He nodded.

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**A/N: Hello my lovelies. I'm very sorry for this late update. I planned to post this update before my trip to Istanbul, but things got in the way, so I'm doing it now. Please be kind and forgive any typos and other mistakes -I'm jet lagged! Hope it was worth the wait. And as usual, please let me know what you thought of it. More Daryl and Beth (verbal) interaction will take place in the next chapter. I will reply to the comments soon enough – I usually do it over PM, but for the guests, I will do it in the A/N next time. Let me know how you liked this chapter! Xoxo**


	7. Chapter 7

A month had passed since Daryl's arrival – give or take a couple of days. So far he had eliminated two heads out of three. He wanted to take out the last brother as soon as possible, but he knew he would have to be careful. The fucker must have known somebody were after him and his brothers, so Daryl needed to take his time and plan everything to the last detail.

His encounters with the girl continued.

Daryl noticed that she had become easier to find. She had also grown bolder. Daryl didn't know whether he was annoyed or pleased by it - or, perhaps an odd combination of both. She didn't do much, really – just smiled at him. The first time she had genuinely smiled, it had made Daryl freeze on the stairs. He was headed out and had spotted her carrying a basket with dirty laundry. She had made eye contact with him and given him a sweet smile.

She looked pretty.

Daryl had chided himself for freezing midway. For fuck's sake! What was the matter with him? Why was he acting like a fuckin' wuss? The damn girl just smiled, 's all. No need t'get yer panties in a bunch. When she had continued walking and left him alone, he had taken a deep breath – recollecting himself and left as well.

Later that night, when he was at the Chinese store, he found himself buying a chocolate bar for the girl – didn't kids like sweet shit like that? But as soon as he paid the Chinese man, he regretted his decision. It was a bad idea. What if she gets the wrong idea? What was the idea even? Why had he done that? She didn't need no damn chocolate bar. He wasn't her provider. _The fuck is wrong with me? _But all his disdain proved to be unnecessary, because upon his return, the girl was waiting for him with a yet another sweet smile – and Daryl found himself handing over the chocolate bar to her – just like he had done with the switchblade a few nights ago.

He noticed, but did not acknowledge her big smile.

He noticed, but did not acknowledge her bright eyes.

He noticed, but did not acknowledge her quiet thank-you.

The girl was just hungry – anybody would smile if someone gave them food.

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The man from third floor had started given her stuff; a switchblade and now a chocolate bar. Had it been someone else, she would have never accepted the gifts – instead she would wonder what they expected in return. Nothing came for free – at least not in her experience.

She recalls the night he had given her the knife. Most of his dark clothes were covered in blood. Not that anybody gave a crap about things like this in her neighborhood. As long as it wasn't their blood, nobody cared. But she did.

She remembers seeing his arm bleeding; there was a relatively big cut on it. For a second she had forgotten about her own misery, and wanted to ask him what had happened to him – why he was hurt, why was he covered in blood? She had many questions, but she knew she had no right to demand answers. All the same, she couldn't help herself, but wonder what his name was. Where he was from. Why he was here. When he would leave again. She wondered how his voice sounded like? She had never heard him say anything, only breath and grunt.

When he gave her the switchblade, she didn't know what to think. _What - why is he giving me that? He wants me to take it? _And she had, but why? She keeps returning to the events on that night, playing out the scenario in her head over and over again, and each time reaching to the same conclusion; it felt right. Oddly enough, it was the nicest thing anybody had done for her in a long time.

That is, until he gave her a chocolate bar.

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The next night, Daryl headed out and once again, he found himself at a yet another store. The cashier was a man in his forties, with gnarled hands and a pinched face. He resembled one of those withered heads found in voodoo shops. He used a pencil and a sheet of notebook paper rather than a machine (the store lacked a cash register, though a faded square on the counter suggested that this wasn't true) to add up Daryl's purchases; two plastic wrapped sandwiches that smelled fresher than anything else in the room. Between each scribbled price, the man licked his thumb, squinted, and cocked his head at the previously written number. His prison record probably stretched as long as his scraggly ponytail – though Daryl had neither interest nor right in judging him. "_Nine n' a half dolluhhs' n' we'll call it even, Suh._" Daryl placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and watched the cashier's face light up, "Keep the change."

Daryl had also bought something for himself – beer and toilet paper – so that he could convince himself that he wasn't going out of his way for the girl.

Once he reached the tenement, he found her sitting by the windowsill, awaiting his arrival. She gave him one of those smiles that made Daryl think about things he never did. He had already taken the sandwich out of the plastic bag – he didn't want to fumble with it in front of the girl – the less time he spent there, the better it would be. He handed over the plastic-wrapped sandwich, turning around as soon as her slender fingers were wrapped around it.

"Mister,"

_Damn._

Daryl who already stood on the stairs, slowly turned around. The girl looked down at the sandwich in her hands and back up to his face.

"Mist—"

"My name ain't 'Mister' – it's Daryl. Use it." He growled unintentionally.

She was taken aback by something, because her eyes went big – bigger than usual. There was a glint of amusement (if Daryl wasn't wrong) in her eyes.

"Why are you… uhhm… doing this? Giving me this (she pointed at the sandwich) and this (she took out the switchblade from her pocket)"

Daryl felt a sense of… what was it – pride? – upon seeing the switchblade emerging from her pocket. He didn't think much of it - _maybe the girl will throw it out, or lose it_ – but she had kept it. In her pocket.

"Hey, if ya don't wan' it –"

"No! No, I – I do. It's just…"

She looked up, seeking his eyes for some help. Perhaps she was hoping he would finish her thought for her, but he stared back bleakly – waiting for her to finish. And when she didn't, he turned around and walked to his apartment. He managed to hear her _thank-you_ before he disappeared into his own floor.

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Later that night, he though about the mission. He'd be done in a month – maybe even sooner. Good. Then he would no longer be bothered by the girl. He would no longer be bother with her trailing him or demanding answers or giving those girlish "thank-you's". He would no longer be bothered with the way she looked at him, as if he were actually making a difference.

But best not to get his hopes up. The mission could take longer. It could.

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**A/N: Hello my dears. Let me apologize for this (very) late update. I am truly sorry. If it were up to me (well, it still is, but – if I ****_could_****) I would finish this story asap and give you awesome readers an update every second day! Bear with me, please. A huge thanks to your amazing reviews! It makes every writer's day to know that people are reading, following, reviewing, favorite'ing (is that a word?) and ENJOYING your stories. Kisses and hugs to each one of you! I'd like to dedicate this chapter to all the awesome people who read the Author's Note :D Hope you enjoy this chapter, and please! Don't forget to tell me what you hated/liked about this update – (aaaaaaaand pssst!... your favorite line/scene as well. I know, I know.. I'm too demanding :-/ :-) hihi )**


	8. Chapter 8

The girl always came with a fresh bruise – either on her arm, her face, her legs. Daryl never asked her why she got them, or from whom – although the question was always on the tip of his tongue. It frustrated him so much that - _Sonufabitch!_ It wasn't his business to interfere. It wasn't his business to even think about it. He had given her a weapon to protect herself, hadn't he? He was feeding her, wasn't he? None of it was his job or his concern. He shouldn't be bothered to do more. Plus, it wasn't like she asked him about his bruises and cuts. Their unspoken deal was only about him feeding her – nothing more, nothing less.

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She told him her name, Beth. As if he gave a shit. As if he'd asked, or been the least bit curious. As if she were anyone important enough for him to think of by name.

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"Here," he grumbled. A bag of pretzels in the laundry room.

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"Here," he snapped at her. A turkey sandwich in the staircase.

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"Here," he grunted. A burger wrapped in greasy aluminum foil.

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She'd always say her thank-you. Daryl never expected anybody to know their bedside manners in this neighborhood. Not that her gratitude made any difference – he would probably still feed her even if she didn't say anything. Maybe the little food she got through him, could give her the physical strength she needed, next time she had to dodge a punch or a kick.

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Daryl had never fought for, over, or because of a woman. Let alone a little girl. But that night, it was all about to change.

It was past midnight when he had spotted her across the street – the girl. Beth. He was on his bike on his way back to the tenement. The street wasn't empty – users, pimps, bikers, prostitutes – take your pick of lowlifes, were hanging around. She was standing under a buzzing streetlight, wearing a very short and tight black dress that made her look older - she was built for sin, lookin' like that. And from the looks of it, she was about to; two male silhouettes were standing next to her, one of them was leaning in. Daryl's instinct told him to get off his bike and walk towards her. He let the engine still run - in case they needed to speed off. He paced his steps, looking for his guns with his hands – his eyes never left the two leering men. When he got closer, he realized one of them was a boy – he couldn't have been much older than twenty; skinny and tall with a rip in the armpit of his oily wifebeater, and a snake tattoo on his skinny arm. The other was a man, too much facial hair, but a shaved head, and arms covered with ink. Daryl could take both of them down. He'd done it before. He slowly reached for his gun that was tucked between his back and jeans, but stopped when the girl made eye contact with him.

Except that she didn't look relieved to see him. Her eyes widened, but she quickly recollected herself and broke the eye contact. Instead of running away from the scenery, she touched the older guy's inked arm, flashing a smile at him. The girl ignored him.

Had anyone been watching this unfold, they would think Daryl to be crazy – standing in the middle of the street, his right hand frozen in his back.

He _was_ crazy. With every ounce of nonchalance he could muster, he walked back to his bike, and sped off – louder than what was necessary.

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So, apparently, she did work the streets.

As soon as he entered his apartment, he threw the bag of food aggressively at the wall – adding stains to the already stained old wall – and the smell of Chinese food hit the room. Pacing back and forth, gnawing his lower lip, he scolded himself. He felt like an idiot. Why did he care about her wellbeing? It was none of his goddamn business. What she did, _who_ she did – were none of his fuckin' business. _The fuck did ya expect? That just 'cause ya been feedin' her she'd come runnin' t'ya? _

Fuck her.

And the only reason he opened the window and leaned out to smoke, was because the room stank of Chinese food. He wasn't looking for her. He was definitely not waiting for her to return. Because he didn't care about her.

To hell with her.

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He couldn't shut his eyes that night.

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As always, he could smell her before he could see her. He was hoping she wouldn't be there – not after last night. But she was there; sitting by the windowsill awaiting his arrival. Daryl took longer and faster strides – he wanted to get away from the staircase as soon as possible. But the girl jumped down from the windowsill – the only time Daryl didn't want her close, she was less than six feet away.

"Hey," she said, cocking her head to the side, seeking his eyes. Her golden locks fell to the side.

He remained silent, still not looking up. His gaze fixed on a stain on the filthy floor.

"I - umm… about last… I w - I was taking care of some - thing -"

Daryl's teeth were held tightly together, as if to keep anything behind them from escaping. He looked up and met her eyes. His gaze pierced hers, making her step back and momentarily forget what she was saying. He held his stare, while also taking her shocked state in; her pink lips had parted, her eyes round and big, her pupils dilated to almost black. When she didn't continue, Daryl resumed his short journey to the third floor, disappearing in the dark hallway.

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He had no right to judge her. Christ! He _killed_ people for living - he wasn't any better than her. But he wasn't judging her, no; it was more like anger – mixed with frustration. He _hated_ that she should do - _that_. Yes, he hated it. He was angry because in this Godforsaken grey city, everything was corrupt and rotten. He was frustrated because he felt helpless because -_- sonufabitch!  
_

There were no more nods, no more smiles, no more shy looks - when he returned to the tenement. He would hold his head so stiffly fixed, that he later would get pain in his neck and shoulder muscles. She had tried once more – waiting for him like all the other nights, but Daryl had not stopped to acknowledge her presence – instead he kept walking. So, she had stopped sitting by the windowsill, awaiting his arrival. The following night after their last encounter, Daryl found the dirty windowsill empty. He felt a pang of _something_ – it hit his gut hard; harder than any punches he had ever gotten.

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With the girl not bothering him anymore, he could once more focus on the actual reason why he had come here in the first place; the mission. He had been patrolling the city, following the last target around. He noticed the head, Len, had been visiting one of the strip clubs more frequently. The sign, which was tastelessly flashy, read _Teasers – Topless Dancer_. The place was dingy, with loud music playing in the background. Two girls were dancing on two different podiums; one lazily dancing around the pole – she was probably high on coke – while the other was making contact with the cheerless audience. Most of these girls were raised on curse words instead of lullabies – girls who couldn't read but whose eyes had learned too much before they were six years old; girls tempted into service simply because the pimp had offered them a meal – and they considered it a good deal.

Daryl went to the bar, sat down on a stool, and ordered a beer. He looked around for Len – despite the fluorescent colored light, it was too dark to see clearly. And he wouldn't have spotted her, had it not been for the sweet and familiar melodic voice he had grown fond of. She was dressed in the same too-tight-too-short black dress. Her golden locks were open and swaying about. She was wearing make-up, jewelries, and high heels. She fit the sign's description; a teaser.

"She ain't no dancer, pal, just a waitress. She's cute alright, but don't waste your breath," the bartender told him as he placed a bottled beer in front of Daryl.

The girl was a waitress. At a strip club.

He took the beer bottle and emptied it in one swig.

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**A/N: Hello my lovelies. So, this is the moment some of you had been waiting for; to know more about Beth and whether she is a prostitute or not. It was my plan all along to make her a waitress at a strip club that will somehow connect her to Daryl's mission. What did you think of this chapter? Good? Bad? Too much? Too little? Any favorite lines/scenes? I hope you enjoyed it. Xoxo**


	9. Chapter 9

Never in his wildest imagination, did he think the girl would be a waitress at a _strip club_. He was taken aback and that rarely happened. Daryl didn't wait for a second round of beer; he slammed a ten-dollar note on the counter and left the club. There was still light outside, but the night was about to take over. Nighttime was Daryl's favorite time of the day – there was just something about the night that made him feel more comfortable. Whether it was the deserted streets or the cool air, or the shiny stars, he didn't know – but he felt more at ease during nighttime.

Except for tonight.

Tonight he felt agitated and uneasy. He hopped on his bike and headed for the city, speeding off of a few red lights. He roamed around, enjoying the cool air that touched his face and ran through his hair. It relaxed him slightly, until he began to think of the girl again. Before he had left the club, he heard someone refer to the girl as Bambi. (Daryl had been fortunate enough to see a handful of animated movies during his childhood and one of them was _Bambi._) He was aware that girls in this kind of business always had a stage-name, an alias. He could see why she was referred to as Bambi; she seemed innocent – despite the entire outer _attire_ – maybe it was because of her big blue eyes, or her petite physique.

He roamed around the city aimlessly for hours, before heading back to the tenement. The streets were fairly soulless and easier to access and get through. Several blocks away from his final destination, he saw her, walking slowly. She was still wearing the same God-awful dress – it wasn't that she looked particularly bad in it – on the contrary, she looked _very_ good in it and that's what terrified Daryl and made him hate the dress so much. Without thinking further, he approached the sidewalk slowly and hit the brakes.

With tense shoulders, the girl turned around slowly to face the source of the noise; she was firmly holding something in her hand. It was the goddamn switchblade. Daryl stared at the girl, not knowing whether he thought of her action to be stupid or brave. He wanted to tell her how to defend herself if someone approached her—that the switchblade wouldn't be useful if she didn't know how to use it. He wanted to show her the proper way of using it, where to use it, when to use it and all the other details.

Upon seeing and recognizing his face, the girl let out a sigh of relief, dropping her arms and tucking back the knife in her bag. She gave him an accusing look, and when he didn't react, a quizzical one. Had there been someone to count the seconds, they would announce that the two of them stared at one another for eleven seconds.

The girl jerked her head, breaking the eye contact and the moment – whatever it was – and nonchalantly resumed her walk. His eyes followed her slender back as her heels clicked and made their way towards the tenement.

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Entering her own home was a delicate operation, one that had to be undertaken with the greatest of care. She only opened the door few inches because anyone inebriated behind it might take the motion for a trick of the eye, while a door opened wide would alert her presence to everybody. The girl waited, listening without breathing for any indicator of Him. No sound came, or none that she could detect. In a movement that would have shocked the man on the third floor with its swift fluidity, the girl slipped inside.

Her eyes scanned the interior with all the thoroughness of a hunter but the motives of its prey.

He was nowhere in immediate view, but she allowed herself to neither relax nor shut the door - the was still the bedroom and bathroom to check, and she might need to make a hurried escape. God help her if he was out and returned before she could hide, because certainly no one else would. Condoms and cigarette buds and empty syringes were smashed into the grime that covered the floor – beneath which, she supposed, might be a carpet. She couldn't be sure; her memory did not reach that far. Heaps of trash and clothes (some mixed together) were strewn throughout the room, as if left in the wake of a particularly drug-addicted tornado. Rat droppings and a broken microwave, a forsaken bologna sandwich that was starting to turn a strange color. A smell that said She had lost control of her bowels again.

The woman in question lay in the center of the room, on a couch beaten and stained beyond shape or color. It was merely a leathery lump that took up space, sorta-brown and sorta-pale and sorta-grey. The same could be said of the woman who rested upon it, whose right arm hung off the side and seemed stuck within a bag of Frito's. She had a tan-ish hair that had been washed at the same time she had changed her clothes: long ago, and a face pockmarked and pasty and legs streaked with blue veins. The girl paid her absolutely no attention.

She crept forward, sticking to the left wall, except when she had to step around mess and trash bags, the latter of which had been half-filled and then abandoned in the face of a task too great. The bedroom was on the right-hand side, so there was a corner, a moment when He could have been standing there, waiting for her in one of his rare, sneaky moods. And another moment when she had to check the bathroom, but He was not hiding behind the doors; his unconscious form was not sprawled across the mattress; His piss was not splashing into the toilet.

He wasn't there.

The girl took a breath of deep relief, but her brow crinkled up at a new decision. He could be back in any minute. Or He could be gone all night, and the might have time to curl up in that corner of the apartment (cleaner than the others) that was hers and sleep. Both had an equal chance of happening; the girl had no way of knowing which to prepare for. Worst of all possibilities was the scenario in which he came back before she awoke. Normally, she wouldn't come home till well past over midnight – she would sit by the windowsill, hum a song and cry, while looking out at the window. It was less risky to come home later, when everybody was asleep or intoxicated to the point of oblivion. But the man from the third floor would pass by and… and it had been nice in the beginning – but things had changed, he had, and—and she wanted to explain why, but he never let her.

Like always, the bad outlived the pleasant in her life.

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He spent night after night at or around_ Teasers_—convincing himself that it was for the mission, even though the target, Len, had not sat his filthy foot there since the last time. He would choose the darkest corner the place could offer and nurse his beer. He'd watch the girl from afar—praying she'd never come to his table. From the way she swayed her hips when she walked the tables, the way she leaned over— balancing a tray in one hand, collecting the money in the other, or the exaggerated flirtatious smiles and mock laughs, Daryl guessed she must have worked there a while.

When he wasn't inside, he would roam around the area on his bike. Until the girl got off, that is—because then he would follow her from a distance – far enough for her not to notice him, close enough for him to see her. It was a good opportunity to look around for the last head, Len. At least, that is what he had convinced himself of doing. And every night before reaching the tenement, he would speed up to reach there before the girl— making her notice of his presence.

It wasn't always easy for him to sit still in the dark corner. Sometimes his knuckles would itch for a face to break. Some people just annoyed him; like the man from the other night – he must have been in his mid forty's, short-sleeved blue shirt, cargo pants, glasses—he reeked of desperation, because he desperately tried to buy the girl a drink. _Fuckin' prick. _When the fucker didn't back off, Daryl was about to get up and yank his stupid shirt out of the club, drown his sorry ass in booze and ask him if he still was interested in a drink.

He found it especially hard tonight to sit still. Yet another desperate man was trying to catch the girl's attention, but he was using all the wrong ways. Daryl would have tried to sit still if the man hadn't laid his hands on her body. Gnawing on his lower lip aggressively, clenching his itching hands, he planned how to spend the rest of his night.

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That night, he left the club sooner than the girl did. He tracked the man down, dragged him into an empty alley and with an easy work of his fingers and muscles, he broke the man's right hand. The man screaked a heart-wrenching scream, making Daryl wince in pain.

"_You broke my hand, motherfucker_!"

"You touch 'er again, Imma _break your face_." The honestly in his growl silenced the man.

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He got back to the club just in time and parked his bike a block away from the club, letting the motor run and awaited her arrival determinedly. She was in bewilderment to find him there; her made-up eyes bigger than usual, her red-coated lips parted.

Like their prior agreements, there were no words shared, no arrangements made—he simply nodded towards the bike, indicating she should hop on. And she simply did.

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She took off her heels, not wanting to make too much noise, as she held her breath and listened through the door. She could hear a faint sound of laughter coming – _that pig_ was probably laughing at a joke nobody sober understood.

_Shit. Merle's home._

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**A/N: Hi people! Thank you so much for reading the last chapter(s) and for your awesome and heartwarming response! You guys :´)  
I enjoyed reading every review, every PM, all your questions and kind words. I promise I will reply to all of them as soon as possible. So, here's another update. As you have just read, I introduced Merle Dixon to this story (something I had planned all along) and we will see how the story will unfold with both of the Dixon brothers being involved with the girl, yet not being aware of it. Let me know what you think of this installment. My plan with this was to demonstrate Daryl's feelings - he is still in denial about what he feels toward the girl, but he can't help himself, he can't keep his emotions and rage in check. Let me know if I made that clear in this chapter. Also, if you had any fav line/part :) Love you all, you awesome folks! xoxo**

**ps. forgive my typos and other mistakes. I have no Beta. I usually go through it after I've published it and correct any mistake I see.**


	10. Chapter 10

The guy from third floor, _Daryl_, had given her a ride the other night. She didn't know why he was always around, but she wasn't complaining. To her, it was an alien feeling, to have someone care about her. It was all so strange, unfamiliar, unreal. Her experiences had taught her that if anybody showed any interest in you, it meant they wanted something in return; if a thank-you then either physical or in form of a favor. But this guy, _Daryl_, hadn't asked for anything in return. He didn't even speak that much. He was like a ghost – always appearing unexpectedly. But in spite of all that, she felt a slight joy – something she had… well… never felt before. Oddly enough, she felt safe around him.

It all went away, though, when she came home to Merle. He had that affect – wiping away her joy like an angry wave, hitting the shore and washing away the sand.

As usual, he was drunk when she got home. She wanted to go sit by the window in the stairwell, but she was also very tired – she wasn't able to get much sleep the night before as Merle had been too loud; talking and yelling about irrelevant things (something that happened often in his state of intoxication) to Patricia and her. At least he hadn't hit her again. The first time he had raised his hand on her, she was barely eleven. It was right after Patricia had moved to this neighborhood. Since their move, everything had gone downward – not that things were great before either – but at least they used to live in the small place that was left from the farm. To her, it felt like decades ago – a time where everything was different, surreal almost. The thought of running away had crossed her mind multiple times, but where would she go? What would she do? She had nobody.

That night, she fell asleep pondering the weak irony of being so close to her home, but feeling homeless.

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"Hop on," he had told her casually the second time he offered her a ride.

He was careful not to repeat this gesture every night he saw her; sometimes he would give her a ride, and other times he would follow her from a proper distance. He feared something might happen to the girl if he let her out of his sight. Having her sit behind him on his bike was the strangest thing he had ever done. He was certain she felt the same way – because she had avoided touching him, she had only held a fistful of his leather vest, tugging his shoulders down which he found extremely annoying. But he wasn't offended. He understood.

Earlier that night, he had decided to follow her instead of giving her a ride, but upon seeing her, he had changed his mind. Without any words, she understood his unspoken question and had sat down on the bike behind him.

But she was still cautious – because when Daryl had stopped by a gas station to fill the tank up, the girl had gotten off the bike before he did looking uncomfortable – she was probably startled by the sudden change of direction.

That night, he learnt a few things about the girl. The girl liked pizza. As he was filling up the bike, he looked at the girl's direction, finding her mesmerized by a billboard that advertised pizza. He took note of the way she absentmindedly licked her color-coated lips. The other thing he noticed was how the opposite gender eyed her in their passing; the older ones gave her a knowing sleazy smile, while the younger ones smiled a little too brightly at her – wordlessly threatening to offer assistance.

It all gave him a feeling of annoyance.

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The next night, he failed to see the girl at work. He recalled the girl's reaction to the billboard from last night, so he decided to buy a pizza. He found a pizza place that seemed to have been making them since the Nineteen-Thirties. He carried the box up, his boots sloshing through gravy-thick water, cigarette foil and beer caps. Down at the entrance corridor, there were a few skeletal drug addicts who looked at Daryl – or the pizza box – curiously. He squinted his eyes threateningly at them until they looked down.

He found the girl siting by her place. She looked at him with a faint smile of recognition – as if she had been expecting him. He noticed she had a small cut on the right side of her forehead, by her hairline. She had tried to cover it with her blonde locks, but Daryl had noticed anyway. He wanted to ask what had happened to her, but instead he handed her the pizza box. Her stomach growled suddenly, making her bite her lip, cheeks flushed.

"Eat," Daryl commanded, interrupting the girl's embarrassment, and turning away to disappear into his own floor. Before he was completely gone, he heard her girlish and unnecessary 'thank-you'.

All night, he wondered about the cut on the girl's face.

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His first thought, when Daryl saw her, was _Oh shit._

The second was _Who?_

The third _No, no, no._

Earlier that night, Daryl had gone to the same pizza place, ordering another pizza, but this time with plenty vegetables – didn't kids need that shit? He had also bought her a chocolate bar – the kinds she liked – with coconut. Upon his return to the tenement, he found the windowsill empty. He wanted to be angry, wanted to say something rude and punish the girl for being late. He had gone through all the trouble, yet she was nowhere to be seen. Annoyed, he took the box with him to his own floor.

As always, he could smell her before he could see her. It was a sweet, musky, humid smell. In his profession, his nostrils had grow accustomed to different smells, and what he could smell right now was blood. She was in a half standing – half leaning position by his apartment door. Daryl wondered how she managed to make it up the stairs, how she managed to stand or walk at all. She couldn't have been thinking clearly, shouldn't have had the strength or will to move. The girl's eyes were glassy and unfocused, her legs shaking from ankle to hip with the effort their job required. She swayed unmistakably from side to side like an infant's tower of blocks. Tangled hair, a partially open mouth that revealed a skin much darker red than any gum should be. A purple crescent moon around her left eye. Shoeless feet, only one sock that had turned red from something she must have stepped on. And the strong scent of copper. The girl stopped swaying when Daryl appeared. But though she looked straight at him, he doubted that she knew who he was.

"Jesus Fuckin' Christ," he swore, dropping the pizza box.

Her lips quivered and she wobbled; he caught the tower of blocks before they could hit the filthy floor, just as her knees buckled. She gave a sharp whimper at the press of his body against hers. But the girl did not – or could not – struggle as he lifted her into his arms. Beaten flesh and the curve of a breast against his chest. Her knees laying over his forearm, easily fitting in the space between Daryl's wrist and elbow. Small body flinching spastically, her head twisting away from his neck.

He carried the girl inside.

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**A/N: Hey guys. First, yes, this is a very short chapter, but seeing as I'm done with my exams, I will be updating more often! Maybe every 4-5 days (hopefully!)****  
**

**Now, a quick reply to my lovely readers and commentators! To the Guest who said well done for ruining the story: you are very welcome.**

**To Clo: Thank you soooo much for your kind and encouraging words. I reread your review when I was about to give up!**

**To the Guest with the lengthy review: Darling, please do not apologize! Your review made my day! I love your comparison to Sin City and I'd be lying if I said I haven't thought of it. I suppose this is a bizarre mixture of Sin City, Leon, The Punisher and The Walking Dead!**

**To BelleCelestyn: I LOVE LOVE LOVE your curiosity and your questions! Keep em coming!**

**Tania Ibarbia: Estoy muy feliz de que usted está disfrutando de la historia. Por desgracia, yo no hablo español, así que también estoy usando un traductor para escribir este mensaje. Espero que lo que estoy tratando de decir tiene sentido para usted. Tener un día precioso, mi amor.**

**This chapter is dedicated to all you sweet people who read and enjoy this story. At the end of the day, you are my reason to write.**

**Let me know what you thought of this chapter, and what you think have happened to Beth – and why. Love Ya'll!**


	11. Chapter 11

"It's okay, Kid. It's a'right. It's okay."

Daryl brought the girl to the tattered couch (after making a U-turn from the bedroom; he didn't want to scare the girl more than she already was) and settled her with her back slightly propped against the armrest.

"It's okay,"

He couldn't seem to stop repeating the words, the useless (to him) mantra. At least it was better than the swear words Daryl stored and kept on hand near his tongue. The girl was blinking, her eyes dark and glittering with an unnamed, but not unnamable fear. As if she'd awaken to find herself alone in a forest with footprints all around her that were disturbingly wolf-shaped. He hoped she wouldn't cry. He wouldn't know how to handle a crying teenager; somehow he guessed that his usual stern replies would not be appropriate.

Daryl took a deep breath.

"It's okay, Beth. I'm - I'm just gon' look atcha, aight?"

He really, really hoped she wouldn't cry.

He examined the injuries not hidden by clothing, first. The hardened, scratchy tissue of his fingers skimmed over bruises, little cuts. The plucked small, dark silvers of glass out and pressed he little holes the shard left until they clotted. She gasped and whimpered, and whimpered more when his hands left her arms and made their way up her neck.

"C'mere, darlin'. It's okay. Ain't gonna hurt you. Just lemme see. C'mere."

She submitted to him with a few tremors and a watering of eyes that couldn't imagine any more hurt, but couldn't hope for anything else either. He made her turn her head, left then right, as he searched for abrasions. Gently, with a brush of his knuckles over her cheek, Daryl urged her head down. He swallowed, fought to hold his face in an expression that wouldn't cause her any more fright. Near the back of her skull, the girl's knotted blonde hair was wet. A gash lay beneath the clumped, moist strands. Not deep, not too wide, but troubling enough that he put in extra effort to make his voice kind.

"It's okay," he told her softly. "Ya gon' be okay. It's okay."

Daryl felt the swollen of the wound, testing. Blood oozed slowly, rather than gushed, but his palms were still soaked when he drew back. His heart battered tightly somewhere in the passage of his throat. He though, _hospital_. But no. He trusted the clinics in this city even less than those anywhere else. He listened to her pulse, her lungs. Watched the girl watching him and tried to decide if the confusion he saw was part of a concussion. A tear trickled down her too pale cheek. The girl's pupils were large, but even, and no pink stained the whites around the irises.

Daryl would often wander into the wood to hunt; he would track, taste the mud, and smell the trail. So he inhaled deeply; his senses were as good as any doctor's test. No notably abnormal chemicals in her body, beside terror. Hints of beer, heroin and smoke on her skin, but not beneath it. Dirt and cheap laundry detergent and sweat and the nostril-burning stink of other male. His thoughts bouncing around like marbles in a dryer – what he could do, what he couldn't, what had to be done—Daryl left the girl and fetched a towel from his bathroom. It was one of the only two that he owned; the second was wet from his morning shower. He pressed the cloth (not too hard, but she jerked and keened) against the girl's scalp - regretting, for the first time, how poorly stocked his apartment was. Furniture, beer, cigarettes, weapon, clothes, pills and booze. Nothing, besides this fucking towel, that would help the girl.

"Please… no more…" the girl whimpered incomprehensibly.

Daryl bit down on the _sonufabitch_ that almost slipped through his teeth, pushed the self pity to the back of his mind and focused his attention on the more pressing realities. The girl had to be tended to. She shouldn't be left alone. He had to take care of her. He needed items not present here. He couldn't use the homemade kit he had used for his own cuts. He needed to leave, to gather those necessary supplies. He shouldn't leave her. She was hurt.

She was hurt.

She was hurt.

Daryl's thoughts fused into a grudging, fragile decision.

She was hurt.

"It's okay, darlin'. Don't worry,"

Daryl continued his improvised examination, hurrying now. He ran his hands along her legs – checking for lacerations, bumps, any areas too tender. Wounds that could not be left unattended even for a brief period of time. He removed the single sock from her foot, and then the circular head of a beer bottle that had been buried into her skin. She shrieked, once, and the sound ended in a coughing fit. Daryl held her ankle in his grip until the pain dimmed enough to make her reconsider kicking. He made little shushing noises, stroked her heel and any skin that didn't seem too bruised, apologized over and over again. A strip of towel was sacrificed to tie around her foot; the wound would scar badly and leave her with a slight but permanent limp. He released her leg, but it spasmed every time Daryl touched it, as if stung with tiny bolts of electricity.

"D-Don't. Please – no more. I-" the girl choked out, barely articulate, when he pushed her shirt up.

"It's okay," Daryl said, reflexively, hopelessly.

"No, I don't-" He bottom lip shook too much. Lack of vocal control or upset, kept the girl from completing her sentence.

"I know, darlin', it's okay."

He touched her stomach, drew his calloused fingertips down her ribs – one side then the other – checking for fractures. She wasn't wearing a bra, and Daryl tugged the shirt back down as quickly as possible. He looked down reluctantly, studied the juncture between her jean-clad thighs while equally attempting to not recognize it. His throat spasmed in something like a swallow. Another glance below her hips. The red stain had not grown, or not so much. He undid the little metal button and then the zipper - making the girl flinched bodily, violently. She twisted, puked over the edge of the couch. But a wave of relief washed over his body – she only had a deep cut in her inner thigh. Her shoulders rose and fell, gave little heaves even when nothing more dripped from her mouth. There wasn't much in her stomach to expel; she hadn't had the chance to eat her meal of the day.

Daryl gently pressed the girl's shoulders until she lay on her back once more. He wiped her lips with the corner of his shirt. The scent of vomit bothered him much less than the other smells on the girl's body. Daryl told himself that it would be alright, that she would be alright. He told himself that he knew what he was doing.

"Beth," he said, a little unevenly. "I hafta go get some stuff to- to take care of ya. It's gon' take me a lil while, but I'll be back. You be a'right. Just stay here."

Daryl got to his feet. She was shivering. He took off his jacket and draped it over her. Trying to find a blanket that wasn't torn or stained would have taken too long.

"Don't move too much," he told the girl, and found himself stroking her hair without meaning to.

He pulled his arm back and said, a little more roughly, "Don't fall asleep. Ya hear me, girl? Stay awake."

Then, "It's okay."

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At the drugstore, Daryl cut in line. He threw his purchases on the wooden table top, growled both fiercely and at nobody in particular – which meant everybody. The cashier, a man who kept a loaded shotgun next to the emergency button beneath the counter and used it far more than the latter, seemed too relieved that Daryl was not robbing him, to protest.

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"Aight, Kid, Imma take these off. Hey- hey, don't. Don't do that. Not gonna do anythin' to ya. Just calm down."

This time, Daryl steeled himself, or tried to. He slid the zipper down, listening to the _cleck-cleck-cleck._ The blood made it sound a bit wet, and he worried the metal catching any skin. Should he just cut the jeans off?

The girl was shaking horribly. Muscles shuddered and jumped beneath his palms. He had to place his hand under her knee, to keep her from recoiling. Her lips parted and shut, but she neither spoke nor screamed. Daryl had worried that he would find her in a concussion-induced sleep, but the girl's eyes were bright now – almost too bright, alert with fever or fear. Or both.

He got the pants off of her, dropped them on the carpet to join the rest of a mess he'd clean up later. Daryl had already opened the items he had bought earlier, set them in arm's reach. He picked these up, one by one, and gently held her legs apart. Emotion pulsed within the confines of his skull. Little shocks of anger that made him want to punch a hole through something or someone. He thought something was wrong with his heart, his lung. They didn't feel as if they were working properly – pumping too fast and then not at all.

He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to be here, hearing the girl gasp and hiss as hydrogen peroxide touched wounds she should not have. He wanted to be away fighting, killing, growling, drinking beer and not thinking about the girl's beaten flesh – what the hell was wrong with his heart? He wanted to bury his face in her neck, say "it's okay" until his throat gave out, until his words made her okay.

Calm down, Daryl thought firmly. _Focus_, before you hurt her. He inhaled; sought control but there was no need. His hands were steady, never shook as he cleaned her wounds and cuts; his jaw unclenched, his body was loose and revealed noting to suggest that his internal organs were not behaving as they ought to.

"Don't be scared, Kid." He grunted. The command didn't seem to have much effect. Daryl's calloused hand rested on her hip, now. He made a pad of gauze and cotton, positioned it next to the silken space where her thighs met. He didn't know what else to do.

Absently, without giving the action a name, Daryl stroked her leg. Up and down, his thumb moving in thoughtless circles.

He leaned away, looked up to her face, to the visible strips of the clumsy bandage he'd put together for the gash on her skull. Big blue eyes blinking at him rapidly, shock and pain.

He brought her a clean shirt, draped it over her. She curled inward on herself, trying to cover everything. Dimples and bruises and scars. She wasn't listening to his coaxes or explanations, but he managed to get his shirt on her, eventually. She was hysterical, but small and hurt and exhausted and in danger of slipping into a coma. He fastened the last button and found his arms was locked, refused to leave it's position around her waist. He held the crying girl carefully to his chest, felt her slump against him in resignation. The girl's spine pressed against the underside of his wrist; he could feel each round knot. Her whole body shook when she sobbed, and her fists began rhythmically grab and release handfuls of the shirt he wore.

The tears he had dreaded burned his skin like acid when it seeped through the cloth. The continued to fall even when she drifted into a miserable doze that Daryl woke her from periodically, for the rest of the night. He worried about her sleeping too deeply, mentally recalled everything and anything he'd ever half-learned about concussions.

And he murmured, in a nearly unbroken stream, "Sshhh… It's okay. Ssshhh… Shhh darlin'…. It's okay, Kid. Sshhh…"

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He should have never avoided asking her about her bruises. He should have asked. Asked before it was too late.

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**This chapter was very emotional to write. I hope I haven't made you too upset with it. I'm so emotionally drained right now. Sorry.**

**Thanks for the reviews and the kind words.**


	12. Chapter 12

The (only) fondest memory he had from his childhood was when he was in a car accident – his mother had been too drunk to drive, and she had hit the brakes hard – making him hit his head hard against the front seat. His mother had held him close that night – to ease her guilt or show motherly affection, he didn't know, he didn't care – even the strong smell of cheap vodka and cigarettes did not bother him. He has recalled the memory far too many times to remember the exact details or what was real and false – but the only thing he (deliberately) remembers is the joy of being held (even for a few hours) and how well that had made him feel.

Her foot was dangling over the edge of the couch. So limp it didn't appear to possess any bones at all, pale and slender and inexplicably _sad._ Daryl pushed the limb gently back onto the cushion, continued to scrub the vomit off the carpet. Every few second, he would glance up, check how she was breathing – how fast her eyes moved beneath their lids.

When the chore was completed somewhere in the fait vicinity of his satisfaction, Daryl stood heavily, bracing an arm against his knee. He threw the rags in the garbage bin, told himself that he would take the nearly-overflowing bag to the chute later. He washed his hand thoroughly in the rusty sink and returned to the girl. Her body did not tense as Daryl shifted her back into his lap, made a few adjustments – but her brow crinkled and her lips twisted in discomfort and she gave little unhappy mewls.

"Hey, Kid-" Daryl started quietly, stroking her hair out of her face. "C'mon, darlin' – wake up for me."

The girl fussed but opened her eyes. They were full of shadows. It couldn't have been less than three in the morning; Daryl had been afraid to let her doze off for more than an hour at a time. He was sure she would be happy to sleep without ever waking – and a concussion made that a very real possibility.

She blinked up at him and, like the other times tonight, there was no instant of forgetfulness, of sudden recognition of where she was –just hurt, unbroken by that brief and blessed unconsciousness.

"How ya feel?"

"Mm," she whimpered.

"Head hurt?"

"Mm."

"I'll uh… I'll getcha an icepack later. Sleep now."

Her eyes showed no irritation – if she was capable of such an emotion – at being awoken, nor at what amounted to a dismissal. Just fear. Daryl watched her contemplate the danger she was in until exhaustion overpowered her discomfort. The girl tumbled back into sleep as if it were a muddy sinkhole. And an hour passed – then two, then three. And Daryl sat holding her, moving slightly in a way that was not ricking, because rocking was for pussies. He stared down at the lily-white petals of her eyelids and thinking: Let her sleep. She's okay. He didn't want to see her looking at him as if he was a continuation of her nightmare. Even more, Daryl didn't want to see her almost-easy acceptance of this.

The girl's next-to-nothing weight and the downy skin of her neck n the curve of his elbow. Soft breathing – inhale, exhale. The ever-so-small rise and fall of her chest and hair not damp now, but crusty with blood. Glistening lower lip, scarlet from the pressure of teeth. Twin knees peeping shyly from the hem of his shirt – Daryl had the strangest urge to see how they would fit in his hands. A glimpse of pale thigh and bunched blue cloth around her midsection. Thin arms encircling her stomach – a package whose strings had already been untied- Thick eyelashes. Mouth parted for air. Exhale, inhale. The buttons of his shirt tickling the side of her ribcage. Exhale, inhale. Rat feet pattering inside the wall. Shouting downstairs, a too-young somebody crying. Regular flinches from the girl in his arms, little snuffling sounds. Fluttering eyelids that stilled a moment later.

Her right cheek had a blotch of red in it – probably from laying against his shirt, though his mind raced with other ideas. A slap's bruise, just beginning to shop up. Harsh lips. The hair of a jaw. Carpet burn –

Many, many years ago, the night of the accident, his mother had told him that things were okay, that he was safe.

"It's okay. You're okay," Daryl mumbled, his lips moving so little that he might have been talking to himself, for his ears were the only ones capable of hearing the words.

"You're safe."

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Daryl's internal clock told him that it was a little past dawn in other cities, where the sun's rising was actually visible. The girl's face showed both distress and nausea – he said "It's okay" and tactfully slid her off of his lap, to the other cushion. He busied himself in the kitchen – not that there was much to do – trying clumsily to give her privacy, breathing space, a sense of normality – whatever those pussy therapist or counselors would call it. They were unfamiliar concepts to him when they did not apply to him. He tied the ends of the trash bag together and pulled it out of the oily plastic container. He could hear the girl's minute, timid shifting, felt her wide-eyed stare and knew she was scarping together any remaining dregs of courage into something useful.

"Where are my clothes?" she asked, in a tiny voice. No stutter for a change, but a trembling whisper that was somehow worse. As if she didn't want to be heard as much as she wanted the answer.

"With the rest of the garbage," he said, more blunt than he had intended; force of habit. He pretended to only glance over his shoulder at her, but analyzed the fold of the girl's body, the flinches – as if she were accepting an invisible punch. He turned away. The trash requires his complete attention.

"I'll getchu somethin' else to wear later," He hefted the bag in his right hand, started for the door.

Her lips were quivering. She seemed to be holing her breath and when the girl finally let it out, they shook too. She opened her mouth in apparent preparation of speech, but a sob rushed ahead of the words, and then a moan. Daryl forced himself to wait with something close to what a patient expression might be.

"Can I leave?" she addressed her lap.

"No."

The girl flinched.

"I don't think you should," Daryl amended, with effort. "You're better off here." He opened he front door.

"It's alright. Ya don't needta be scared o' me," he reiterated. "I'll take care o'ya."

The girl did not raise her head.

Out in the hall, Daryl stood frozen, trying to remember why he'd thought giving her a few moments alone was a good idea. It wasn't. It was stupid of him. Screw the garbage and its traces of last night – he should drop it now, here. Go back inside and do _something, anything – _to make her absolutely sure that nothing could get at her, make her understand that she was safe. Let her know that he did not toss around guarantees of protection casually, and that she owed it to him to get better, be happy and strong right away. So she could get the fuck out of this Godforsaken place, this Godless city, this life. She still had a chance.

Daryl gripped the plastic tighter and carried it downstairs.

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He asked her, "You… uh… you wanna talk… about it, Kid?" Tell me… ah… what happened?"

She stared fearfully at the button of his shirt. And when seven minutes passed by with no noise, save sniffles from her, he said "Okay. Imma getchu that icepack, aight?" He got up with a sense of frustration.

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The girl remained on the couch until the thick of evening – a flinching, huddled mass. She kept her wild gaze on Daryl without ever actually meeting his, rarely focusing anywhere above his collar bone. Within a certain distance – arm's reach – she would study the ground, only lift her panicked eyes if he actually did touch her. She refused both food and drink, and he did not push her. Daryl filled an empty beer bottle with water and set it close by, in case she changed her mind. He felt odd, orbiting around this unexpected guest who would certainly be here longer than a hasty dinner. He was constantly aware of himself, and especially her – so small but taking up so much space. There seemed to be nothing to look at but her, nothing to do but ask her _Sure you ain't hungry? Ya cold, Kid? How ya feel? Still hurt? Ya feel sick? The gauze too tight? Need some tissue? Think ya can make it to the bathroom? Ya need t'go? Want me to do anythin'? _over and over again.

He checked her bandages, replaced a few, kept her warm with any clean material he had (a pair of Daryl's jeans – the ones she had washed weeks ago – were rolled and placed under her head), kept up his own fumbling, one-sided conversation. Tear's fell, too, any time he came within arm's reach. Hot, thick tears that coated her cheeks like liquid glad. They never seemed to completely dry away. Daryl did not stray far from the building that day, never more than thirty minutes or so, and only then to pick up items for her. More bandages, a few t-shirts, some cotton child shorts. He bought a quilt from a grandmother in the next tenement. It was the softest and smelled the least of marijuana that the women had to sell.

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He offered the girl his bed, but she shook so badly that Daryl quickly rescinded the suggestion.

"Aight, then. Call out if ya need anythin' – I'll hear ya."

Sleep was a sweet temptation, one his body definitely could have used. When was the last time he rested? Two, three nights ago? He'd gone longer. What was wrong with him? And Daryl touched upon it, briefly – his thoughts and breath slowing into what some might foolishly call peaceful.

But the girl's heartbeats slid between his conscious mind and that darkness with its promise of comforting nothingness. Daryl stared up at the water-spots in the ceiling, listening to that uneven breathing in the other room and told himself hat sleep had never kept its promises to him anyway.

He heard the slow squeak of couch springs, the heavy rustle of cloth. A hiss of agony. Shuffling. Little gasps. Daryl swung his legs over the side of the mattress. His skin snagged on a piece of metal poking through the out-worn weave – perhaps it was good that she had taken the couch instead.

She was upright, yes, but barely so. Hunched over like a crone, legs so shaky and awkward it was as if she was discovering them for the very first time. The air that traveled down Daryl's airways were static with her pain.

A soft hand pressed to the wall, grime clinging to her pal, when she pulled it briefly away. Her other hand touching her hip, her stomach, as if that would push the burning back in, so it would not get out and become unbearable. Her blonde hair – still clumped with blood – was far beyond the point of disarray.

Daryl watched the girl make her slow, limping way towards the door, taking the long route because she needed what meager support the wall had to offer. She was, he thought with more generosity than he usually allowed, being as quiet as she possibly could. Still, not everything could be held behind her teeth and the lip they were biting. A footstep, a shudder, another footstep. Her soles dragging along the carpet. Lower body clenched against cramps and, he supposed, to hold in the gauze around her thigh. Daryl stood in the bedroom doorway, silently considering, wondering if the next step would be followed with a fall.

She paused in her unnecessary escape attempt, refastening her grip on whatever energy she had. He hadn't left the light on when he retired to his bed. It wasn't pitch black, but dark enough to make him worry about her hitting something. He was never sure of the exact point where his vision surpassed everyone else's – he'd have it measure it someday.

Daryl wondered if she knew where she was going. If she were used to dim light and sneaking away.

When he stepped forward, his movements – unlike hers – were completely soundless (something he had learnt for his hunting sessions). And yet she stiffened before he even reached for her, perhaps sensing a different texture in the air behind her. He took hold of the girl's shoulders, gently, and she jerked, shouted. Began crying hard when he pulled her back – more reflexive despair than fright.

"Girl," he said tiredly and not unkindly, "I ain't gon' do this shit witchu. C'mon."

For neither the first nor he last time, he brought her back to the couch – leading, and then carrying. He picked the quilt off the floor, tucked her back in and listened to her beg him to stop something he hadn't begun.

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It was the damn switchblade that had set Merle off.

Also the pizza.

She had come home – much later after the gu—_Daryl_, had left her with the pizza box. Things had been more tense than usual, at home. Merle had been asking her about money – how much she had earned back at _Teasers_. He had told her that her earnings weren't good enough; that they would not cover up her own expenses (which were near to nothing) let alone his and Patricia's. As usual, he had told her that she needs to get rid of her _dumb virtuous _reasons and get promoted – to an actual stripper – to which she had objected and that had caused her a cut in the forehead. He had slapped her, his metal watch scratching her forehead.

That night, when she had gone home, Patricia had passed out – the used needle still in her stiff hand. He was intoxicated, though not to the point of oblivion, unfortunately. Joel, another addict, was there too. Merle had started the night with the same accusations and complains with regard to her earnings. When he had come closer, he could smell the pizza on her – food-smell was rare in their household. He had pushed her, condemning her to stealing money from _him_ to buy herself _useless shit_. He had rhetorically asked her who she thinks she is, who she thinks is the boss around there. The girl wasn't alarmed just then – this sort of arguments happened often; she would usually wait for him to calm down and go to her own corner – praying it would be the end of it.

But that night, it was just the beginning.

The switchblade Daryl had given her, fell out of her pocket, rolling right over to Merle's booted feet. He had picked up the switchblade, sliding the blade and staring at it and then at the girl, while his face grew pink and then red.

"_You lil bitch! You steal from me 'n now you wanna kill me? You dumb whore! Ima teach you a lesson now, girly, you piece of worthless shit!"_

And then he had started kicking her – wherever he could.

The girl begged him to stop.

"_White trash!"_

The girl cried, "please, no more!"

"S_tupid cunt!"_

The girl was kicked so hard, she couldn't breath.

"_You lil bitch! You ugly bitch!_"

The girl screamed when she felt something warm and heavy on top of her, trying to pin her down. Despite the burning pain, she could feel a set of arms holding her numb yet thrashing arms – and the stinking breath of someone. It was Joel, who was helping Merle out, as he cut the girl's thigh with her own switchblade. The girl kicked, and kicked and kicked until she was loose and half wobbled, half ran to find sanctuary.

The next thing she remembers is waking up all patched up in the guy—Daryl's place.

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**A/N: Thank you so, so much for the encouragement, the kind words, the interest and the enthusiasm you lovely folks are showing! I reread all the reviews and they inspire me so much. Thank you BelleCelestyn for your curious mind and your analysis; it makes me so happy to read your reviews. Thank you Clo, for your in depth reviews and analysis, for paying so much attention to details and for your encouragement. Thank you to the Guest (June 22****nd****, your name pls :-) ?) for appreciating the way I write and for asking important question – to which my answer is yes, we will know what "fate" I'm talking about. A special thank to Tania Ibarbia for reading this story even though your native language is Spanish and you have to use a translator! Hats off to you! You're awesome! Gracias! And thank you SummersRage, guilly101, DarylDixonLover, PrimroseGale, AcaemicBooks, MaryJaneReedus, FantasyCat, AnAmberPen, boothandbones4ever, Rossi'sLilDevil, daywalker28, SerenaSmiles, KatntheBox, sharahw, (for your guidance), emilyhotchner-olicity-bethyl, AUntMaggie and everybody else who reviewed, favorite, followed and last but DEFINITELY NOT least – READ AND ENJOYED the story: THANK YOU ALL!**

**My thoughts behind this chapter was to 1. Show why Daryl cares about her, and as some of you noticed, it's not romantic yet. He sees himself in her. And no. 2 is to give a little backstory to why Beth is hurt – and by whom. (Now we know).**


	13. Chapter 13

_To BelleCelestyn, guilly101, sharahw and Summers Rage for believing in me when I didn't myself._

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The days that passed by felt strangely longer than usual – too long. It nearly drove Daryl insane. He was not used to spend so much time inside – unless he was bruised and battered or was hung over, even then he would spend lesser time inside. He felt worse than an inmate in a prison – because in a prison, you have no responsibility – but during the girl's stay, she was his responsibility (according to Daryl, of course) and he was free, but he couldn't leave the girl to herself. The girl's futile attempts to escape continued – time after time, Daryl had coaxed (and later commanded) her to stay, to rest. He was always waiting impatiently for her to say something, to need something, to eat something – but she never did, not willingly – Daryl had to force her.

He spend most of his time struggling to keep from falling through the flimsy netting of the lawn chair (he had found one dumped on the street) since the girl had taken a seemingly permanent seat on his couch. He would turn on the TV but watch the girl instead – wondering what she was thinking about, whether she was in pain, if she was scared of him, what she thought of him… By the end of the program, he could say how many times the girl's eyes had watered, but not which team had won.

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"I have to go to work," the girl said, her voice low and unsure, shaking – but it was the first full coherent sentence she had managed to utter after four days. It caught Daryl – who was busying himself in the small kitchen in order to give the girl some privacy – off guard. He stepped back to the living room, clearing his throat, reminding himself internally to use a softer tone.

"Ya can't even walk," he blurted, cursing himself under his breath for sounding blunt.

The girl didn't flinch or wince any longer – perhaps she had accepted the sad and bitter reality that in her life, loving words were mere illusion and wishful thinking; the reality was harsh – like his hands.

"Look, Kid—" he started without knowing how to finish his sentence. "Just—just stay—till ya can at least walk again."

When the girl didn't say anything, didn't protest or agree, Daryl stepped closer to the couch where she was sitting awkwardly – he wanted her to know that not all touches or closeness were lecherous or dangerous.

"I ain't gonna hurtchu," he repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, but genuine like the first time.

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On the seventh day (technically six 'n a half – but who's countin') he let the girl go. It wasn't his choice, of course, but the girl had insisted and later demanded that he let's her go.

That particular morning, the girl had woken up with a sharp and alert mind. As always, Daryl was awake before she was – he was always dressed, as if he was ready for something to happen. She had prepared her little speech nine times in her aching head – she didn't want to mess anything up. But Daryl had noticed something was off, because she had smiled – even if it was a mere display.

"I need to go—" she started.

"Ya ain't well yet, Kid," he reasoned.

"But I need to go," the anxiety never leaving her timid voice.

"It ain't sa—"

"I need to go! Now! I don't _want_ to be here!"

Her shriek hung heavy in the air like the aftermath vibration of a gong; it was almost tangible. It was the first time he had heard her raise her voice. If he was taken aback, he did not show it – instead he gnawed on his lower lip and looked down at his boots.

"I'm so—"

"Take a shower before ya leave. Gotchu sum' clean clothes. Dunno if they'll fit." He said sternly, cutting her off and leaving the girl speechless with a parted mouth.

The girl looked at the direction he had nodded towards; there was a pile of fabric, clumsily folded. She wished to know when he had brought them – as far as she remembers, he had never left her side for more than five minutes. He had even hired someone (the girl assumed) to bring them food every night.

"You were sleepin'," he mumbled, answering her unspoken question.

They stared at each other for long seconds before he cleared his dry throat, walking toward the front door and asking her over his shoulders to lock the door behind her when she's left.

Then _click_.

And just like that, the girl was left alone in his apartment. Without wanting to, she remained seated for a long time, contemplating on what to do. She looked at herself, caught a whiff of her own smell – she reeked. Her cheeks burning from embarrassment, she wondered how Daryl had managed staying so close to her without gagging. She got up slowly, carefully – she was already feeling lightheaded – and went to the door and locked it. She stared at the locked door, then trying the handle to see if the locks worked, then staring at it some more before entering his bathroom.

The water came in spurts – hot needle-like drops assaulting her battered skin. She relished it, though; she cleaned herself using the bar of soap he had provided for her. She washed her dirty skin and hair, scrubbing away all the stains, the dried blood, the dirt. The water that ran beneath her pale feet was reddish.

She wished she could wash away the memories from the past few days, too. Or, her entire life.

Long after the water had cooled down, she let herself exit the bathroom – wrapping herself in his towel and searching for the clothes he had gotten her; a pair of soft purple sweat-pants, a size too-big white shirt and an itchy baby-pink sweater. Her throat clumped; no one except her father (and that, many, many years ago) had ever bought her clothes. She didn't know what to feel or what to think; everything was clouded in her mind (and her judgment).

She held the sweater close to her face – the texture itching her skin – and started sobbing.

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When he returned that evening, the girl was gone. She had made the apartment (the quilt neatly folded on the couch, his towel put on the broken heater to dry, and no traces of garbage). The girl hadn't taken up so much space, she rarely spoke or did something, but the apartment felt oddly empty. And sad.

Daryl was furious. Why had she gone back to whoever her abuser was? How could she? After everything he had done for h—_fuck it! It ain't that._

_The damn girl ain't right in her goddamn head – runnin' back like a—like a…_

_Fuck it!_

_Fuck her._

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The same night, Daryl found himself on his bike, heading for _Teasers_. Inside, her failed to find the girl. He spotted some of the familiar faces, but not hers. Sitting down in his usual spot, nursing his fifth beer accompanied by his fifth shot, he pondered where she could be, what she could be doing. Was she even alive?

He tried to shrug off his last thought. Drunk, he stood, missing the exist of the club, hitting his hip to a jukebox. _Who the fuck placed a fuckin' jukebox in a fuckin' strip club that plays music all the fuckin' time?! Motherless son of a bitch! _

He didn't know how he reached the tenement that night, or how he managed to unlock the door and enter the _empty 'n sad_ apartment, or finding his worn bed. All he could think of was the girl, and her bruises that would forever haunt him.

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**First off, I am truly sorry for deleting the story and thereby deleting all the followers. I hope you find your way again.**

**I am trying to recover – it is not something that hasn't happened before. I used to write under a different penname in another fandom, but my predicament was harsher then, and I lost the battle - I suppose. But not this time. So, here's to new fandoms and making new friends and starting over.**

**This chapter is very short, I know, but I wanted to portray Daryl's hurt and Beth's confusion about the whole situation. She has never had anybody care for her, and Daryl has never had anybody to care for. In that sense, they are both very new to this and as you just read, things can get a tad ugly – if you will – when confusion and unfamiliarity arise.**

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter and please click "follow story" so I won't have to go search my email to find all the followers and email them personally notifying them about the update.**


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 13 has been updated - please read.

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The girl let herself enter their apartment even though she could hear him inside. With an intake of breath, she crossed the threshold, ignoring the bad feeling in her gut that warned her of something.

She would shortly learn the greatest regrets of her life.

She was surprised to find Patricia (half-awake and half-sober) in a sitting rather than a sleeping position on the broken couch. The woman's eyes, that were bloodshot due to substance use, filled with tears upon recognizing the girl's face. The woman looked at the fading bruises on the girl's face, wondering how many more was hidden behind her clothes. She rose carefully to her feet – her limbs weaker than the girl's – and approached her. Merle was standing in a corner, leaning against the wall, one arm resting on a mold pattern. His eyes contained no emotion – only a cold stare.

The woman approached the girl, taking her slender hands in her even slender ones. With her eyes, the woman searched and asked the girl nonverbal questions. The girl blinked away the tears that threatened to fall – she hated seeing Patricia like this, despite everything. After all, she was the only family she had left since her father's accident. The girl shook her head; the little gesture held many meaning – that she's fine, that she should stop crying, that she's not hurt, that everything will be fine, that she shouldn't worry. When the woman noticed the girl was limping, she threw a look back at Merle.

He smiled, shrugging nonchalantly.

Every human experience a moment in which everything blurs together and _something_, _somewhere_ in their head and heart goes _tick_ – like a switch that is being turned either on or off. In that moment of anger, everything and anything can and will happen – turning your life upside down, and changing the course of life for everybody you ever cared for. And Patricia was about to experience exactly that. Because the older woman attacked him. With a strangled scream that she had held in her lungs for years, so suddenly and unexpectedly she half-ran, half-jumped towards him, scratching his face wherever she could. The girl could hear the woman's sobs and cries, and Merle's lewd curses, followed by a loud noise that would forever haunt the girl's ears. It sounded like a bag of bones being stomped on – except that it was the woman's lifeless body against the broken couch.

The girl stared at the limp body that was lying in an awkward position – she blinked a few times because this cannot be happening, no, she was dreaming. Yes, it was all a dream. Patricia is just high, like her usual self. She's just sleeping off a hung over. She's okay. She was standing before her a moment ago! This could not be real. She's okay.

"She's okay!" the girl said loudly, limping toward the motionless body. "She's okay!"

No, no, nonononononononononon…. Nooo Patty, no, you can't do this to me, no you're okay, get up, you're okay, please, please, pleasepleaseplease get up please no nonono… Please wake up please, please… Patty? Patty, please? Please?

The body remained unconscious even though the bloodshot eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.

A pair of large hands shoved her numb shoulders away – the happening before her blurry and haze – the hands then shook the older woman's body and when they didn't get the response they wished for, the body was lifted; Merle held the legs while Joel held the arms. They disappeared in the quickly in the hallway.

With unfocused eyes, the girl remained seated on the floor.

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When he spotted her before the door to his apartment, he was more alarmed than he was last time.

The girl, who was still wearing the clothes he had provided for her, was sitting on the floor, her legs drawn close to her chest, her arms wrapped around them and her head resting on her knees. Her watery eyes were focused on a stain on the wall, but he could tell her thoughts were somewhere else. When she saw him, she blinked, and the tears rolled down her cheeks.

He opened the door – and left it open. It wasn't an invitation - it wasn't a rejection either. It was a "come in if you want, if not, get the fuck out like you did last time". And she came in, closing the door behind her.

When he turned around, he found the girl staring at him determinedly, her slender arms dangling next to her slender waist.

"He k—kil-killed her, oh God, he kill-killed her!" she sobbed and stuttered through a tightly clenched jaw, spitting and crying while speaking. Her chest heaving rapidly, her shoulders shaking violently and her mind clouded with dizziness that sent her collapsing to a brief somber sleep.

Like always, he caught her before she hit the hard end.

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When the girl woke up, she found herself on the same couch that had sheltered her a day ago, from her grim reality. Remembering why she had ended up on his couch the first time, fueled her anger and pain. She sat up, the soft quilt sliding down from her weak frame, and cleared her throat. He was watching her every move. Daryl could sense something was different about her visit this time, he could read it on her face. That, and the fact that he had not seen any fresh bruises on her, apart from the old ones.

And just like that, she asked him.

"Will you kill him for me?"

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**A/N: So, this is the chapter that will change everything for our two favorite leads. As you just read, I have turned Merle quite the baddie - I enjoyed watching him on the TWD show, he was one of my favorite characters. But in this story, I suppose nearly all of the characters are an extreme side of themselves. Anyway, I shall update sooner now that I'm better. Thanks for staying by my side - I owe you. Let me know what you thought of this chapter - whether I've captured Merle's character, and "explained" why Beth stayed with them for such a long time (because of Patricia). Xoxo**


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